Johnny, at Last

The first time Robert William Blackwood laid eyes on Professor Louis Annesley, he was holding Henry’s hand in the middle of a crowded London street, gesturing dramatically as he recounted what appeared to be some grand tale to the boy. Henry, entranced, hung onto every word, his small fingers clutching the professor’s as if he had known him for years.

Robert had been frantic before he spotted them. His son had vanished from their townhouse hours earlier, prompting every available servant and constable in the vicinity to search for him. Just as panic had truly settled into his bones, Robert received word that Henry had been found—by a man he had never met, a man who had taken him in, fed him, and, according to his son, provided him with “the most exciting stories ever.”

That man had turned out to be Professor Annesley, a historian and novelist who, as Robert would soon learn, had a penchant for chaos and a complete disregard for social expectations.

When Robert stormed up to them, demanding an explanation, Annesley merely gave him a slow, assessing look before smirking.

“Ah,” he had said, “you must be the rather terrifying father Henry was telling me about.”

Robert, still trying to contain his fury, barely managed to respond before Henry tugged on his sleeve and exclaimed,

“Papa! Professor Annesley says he’s seen real Egyptian artifacts, and he has books, wonderful books! You must let him teach me!”

Robert had no intention of doing any such thing. The very notion was absurd. This man—this utterly unserious, infuriating man—was no proper tutor. Yet, somehow, within the span of an afternoon, Henry had grown attached to him. The professor, for his part, seemed utterly unfazed by Robert’s obvious distrust.

“You disapprove of me already,”

Annesley had mused as they walked toward Robert’s townhouse, Henry skipping ahead of them.

“And we’ve only just met. That must be a record.”

“You took in a child you did not know and filled his head with nonsense,” Robert had snapped.

“Oh, I took in a lost and frightened boy, fed him, entertained him, and then made sure he got home safely. Terrible behavior, I know.”

Robert had glared, but Annesley had only laughed.

〰️⚜〰️

Robert had never been an impulsive man. Every decision he made was weighed with the careful consideration of a soldier, a father, and a gentleman of his standing. So when his son first insisted—no, demanded—that a stranger be brought into their home as his tutor, Robert was more than a little sceptical.

Professor Louis Annesley, with his theatrical mannerisms and scandalously unguarded opinions, seemed like precisely the sort of man who would fill a child’s head with nonsense. His reputation as an academic was sound, and Robert grudgingly admitted that the professor had a way with Henry, but there was something about him that felt... elusive.

Unwilling to entrust his son’s education—and, more importantly, his impressionable mind—to a man he barely knew, Robert did what any rational father in his position would do. He sought information. He contacted Richard Williams. An old friend from the military, whose skill in unearthing unsavory truths had been of use more than once. It was a simple request—learn where the professor had come from, verify his credentials, ensure he was precisely who he claimed to be. If there was anything untoward about the man, Robert would have cause to remove him from Henry’s life before any real damage could be done.

The man, of course, found something. Which was to be expected. What he did not expect, however, was for the truth to be more baffling than any falsehood. The name "Louis Annesley" did not appear on any official records of birth nor student registry at Oxford. And the flat he rented in London belonged to a John Douglas — a name utterly unknown to Robert.

It was not the discovery of a past life that unsettled him most. It was the audacity of the lie itself. Men changed their names for many reasons — to escape debt, to conceal scandal, to forge new identities out of necessity. But Annesley had not hidden himself. No, he had flaunted his falsehood like a performance, daring the world to question him. And now, Robert found himself with a choice. To dismiss the professor at once for his deception or to confront him and demand the truth.

He decided to extend the professor some grace and give him a chance to explain himself.

〰️⚜〰️

Robert stood in the professor’s study, his jaw clenched as he held a piece of paper in his hand. The room smelled faintly of tobacco and old books, the heavy scent of ink lingering in the air. Across from him, Louis — or rather, John Douglas — lounged in his chair with that insufferable, ever-present smirk, as though he were delighting in Robert’s obvious irritation.

“I should have known,” Robert muttered, shaking his head. “You are, after all, a writer of fiction. I suppose it was only natural that you would extend that tendency beyond your novels.”

Louis... No, John —Robert wasn’t even sure what to call him now— tilted his head. “Oh, do go on, Blackwood. This sounds positively scandalous.”

Robert slammed the paper onto the professor’s desk. “Who is John Douglas?”

His mouth twitched. “Ah. That.” Louis leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand as he regarded Robert with amusement. “I assume you’ve been investigating me, then? How very military of you.”

“I had a right to know who my son’s tutor really is,” Robert shot back. “And it appears that he isn’t Louis Annesley at all, but a man who once went by the name John Douglas. Should I be concerned? Have you committed some crime? Forged documents, perhaps? Identity theft?”

At that, the professor burst into laughter—full, unrestrained, and far too pleased with himself. Robert’s scowl deepened.

“Identity theft?” Louis wiped at the corner of his eye, still chuckling. “My dear Viscount, you wound me. I am no criminal. I simply found my given name” — he waved a hand dismissively — “insufferably dull.”

Robert blinked. “Dull?”

Louis nodded. “John is such a boring name. How many John Douglases do you know? And I refuse to be boring. So to the public, I’m known as Louis Annesley. Only a few people have the misfortune of knowing John Douglas.” His smirk deepened. “And even fewer have the privilege of knowing Johnny.”

Robert looked at the professor with no understanding whatsoever. He couldn't grasp the concept of changing one's entire name, simply because it was boring. He thought that John Douglas was a perfectly respectable name. Maybe it was a little common, but he wouldn't have called it boring. And Robert refused to take part in this madness and call the other man, by a made up name, just because he thought it unsuitable.

Robert exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You changed your name because you found it… dull?”

“Precisely.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s art,” Louis countered, leaning back in his chair. “A name is but a word, Robert." he said with deliberate emphasis on Robert's own name. "And words, as I’m sure you know, are quite malleable. It simply did not suit me. Would you have me go through life shackled to something so uninspired?”

Robert stared at him, mouth opening and closing in disbelief. He had expected excuses, an admission of some past disgrace — perhaps even a confession of fleeing debts or scandal. But no. The professor had merely been offended by the sheer commonness of his own name.

And yet, something in his eyes — a fleeting shadow beneath the usual playfulness — told Robert there was more to it than that.

He crossed his arms. “That is not the only reason.”

Annesley arched a brow. “No?”

“No.” Robert stepped forward. “You are a cynic, yes, but you are not a fool. No man changes his name on a whim, no matter how insufferable he finds it. What are you running from, Douglas?"

Louis’s expression faltered for the briefest second, something unreadable flickering behind his spectacles. Then, just as quickly, the smirk was back, but it was thinner now, more measured.

“Oh, Blackwood,” he sighed, reaching for a cigarette. “How dreadfully serious you are. Can’t you simply accept that I wished for a name more suited to the life I intended to live? John Douglas belonged to another man, one who no longer exists.”

Robert studied him, sensing that he was toeing the edge of something deeper, something unsaid. But Louis — if that was what he was to be called — had already lit his cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke between them as though the matter were settled.

For now, perhaps, it was.

But Robert was not one to let mysteries remain unsolved.

〰️⚜〰️

The revelation of the professor's deception should have been reason enough for Robert to sever ties with him entirely. A man who lied about something as fundamental as his name could not be trusted — that was what logic dictated. And yet, despite his initial anger, Robert found himself incapable of casting the professor out of his life. If anything, the knowledge that Annesley was, in fact, John Douglas only deepened Robert’s fascination with him.

There was something infuriatingly deliberate about the way the professor carried himself, as though he had spent years perfecting the art of reinvention. It was not the act of lying that unsettled Robert most, but rather the realization that Annesley - Douglas - was entirely unashamed of it. The man did not cower under scrutiny. He embraced it, shrugged it off with that infuriating smirk, and left Robert questioning whether the truth even mattered at all.

Tension lingered between them in the weeks that followed, an undercurrent of something neither of them dared name. Douglas was no less insufferable, no less prone to teasing Robert for his rigid adherence to propriety, but there were moments — fleeting, weighty moments — when the air between them grew thick with something unspoken. A lingering glance over the rim of a teacup, a pause too long to be unintentional.

〰️⚜〰️

Robert had not intended for the conversation to take such a turn. In fact, he had not intended for any conversation to happen at all. He had called Annesley — or rather, Douglas, as Robert stubbornly insisted on calling him — into his study to discuss Henry’s recent fascination with a novel that the professor had carelessly handed to him. A novel filled with scandalous affairs and improper conduct, entirely unsuitable for a child. But, as was often the case, Douglas had twisted the conversation into something entirely different.

The professor sat with one leg draped lazily over the other, swirling a glass of brandy in his hand, as if he were the master of the house and not merely a guest. His smirk had only deepened as Robert spoke, making the Viscount’s blood simmer with equal parts irritation and something else — something he refused to name.

“You look as though you are about to declare war, Blackwood” Douglas teased, tilting his head to the side. “Surely you don’t find a little fiction so terribly offensive?”

Robert stiffened, his hands clasped behind his back. “It is not fiction that offends me, Douglas. It is the notion that a child, my child, should be subjected to such inappropriate material.”

Douglas hummed in mock contemplation. “Perhaps if I were tutoring you instead of Henry, I might have started you on something a little less daring. A volume of sonnets, perhaps, before we graduate to something more, shall we say, provocative?”

Robert inhaled sharply, his patience fraying at the edges. The man was insufferable. Impossible. And yet—

And yet he fascinated him.

Robert had spent his life among men who valued restraint, men whose words were measured and careful, men who understood that dignity was worth more than momentary satisfaction. Douglas was not like those men. He was indulgent, reckless with his words, and too damnably perceptive.

“You test my patience” Robert muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Ah, well, patience is a virtue. But you don’t strike me as a particularly patient man, Blackwood.” Douglas set his glass down on the mahogany desk and stood, taking a step closer. Robert held his ground, though every instinct told him to move away. Or perhaps, more alarmingly, to move forward.

They were too close now. The scent of brandy lingered between them, mingling with the faint trace of ink, that was always present on the other man's fingers. The professor was watching him, his usual amusement still present, but softer now, tempered by something almost serious. Almost.

Robert did not know what possessed him. Perhaps it was the weight of too many nights spent pondering the wrong questions. Perhaps it was the intoxicating effect of being around a man who seemed to challenge the very fabric of his existence. Or perhaps it was something even simpler — a desire long ignored, now too strong to be denied.

He closed the distance between them and kissed him.

For the first time since Robert had known him, Douglas was silent. His breath hitched, his body stiffened, and then—

Then he melted.

It was unlike anything Robert had ever known. The kiss was not tentative, nor was it chaste. It was consuming, the kind of kiss that threatened to unravel everything carefully built. Robert felt the scrape of stubble against his skin, the warmth of Douglas' mouth, the way the professor exhaled softly against him. It was not simply desire. It was defiance, it was a challenge, an unspoken question and answer all at once.

And it terrified him.

Robert pulled away sharply, his breath uneven.

It was Annesley — no, Douglas, damn him — who finally broke the silence, smoothing a hand down the front of his waistcoat as if the kiss had been a minor inconvenience rather than an earthquake.

“Well,” he murmured, his voice oddly restrained. “That was unexpected. Not unappreciated, mind you, but certainly unexpected.”

Robert pinched the bridge of his nose. “God help me.”

“I rather think you should be addressing me instead.”

John smirked, but there was something faintly nervous about it. A flicker of uncertainty, gone as quickly as it had appeared.

“Unless, of course, you regret it. In which case, I suppose I should begin composing a mournful sonnet about my brief but passionate affair with the brooding Lord Blackwood.”

Robert exhaled, long and slow. “I do not regret it.”

That stopped John short. His usual wit failed him for a moment, and he simply looked at Robert as if trying to decipher some great mystery.

Then, almost hesitantly, he said, “Good.”

〰️⚜〰️

Their relationship did not transform overnight, but something between them shifted. Where once there had been sharp-edged banter, there were now lingering glances and fingers brushing too long. Where Robert once found himself scandalized by Douglas' view of the world, he now found himself intrigued.

It was intoxicating.

One evening, after a particularly long night of conversation and brandy, Robert found himself seated across from Douglas in the professor’s cluttered sitting room. The fire flickered, casting shadows against the walls lined with books. John was quieter than usual, swirling the liquid in his glass with an uncharacteristic air of contemplation.

Robert knew that look.

“You changed your name” he said softly. It wasn’t a question.

John glanced at him, eyebrow arching. “I believe we’ve already had this conversation, darling. You disapproved, I dismissed your concerns, we drank, and the world moved on.”

Robert held his gaze. “You didn't tell me the real reason. Not all of it, at least.”

John stilled. He tapped his fingers against his glass once, twice. Then, with a sigh that seemed to carry years of unspoken weight, he leaned back in his chair.

“When I was fifteen,” he began, voice lighter than it should have been, “I fell in love. Or at least, I thought I did. His name was Edwin. Son of a baron. He had golden hair and an even more golden future ahead of him. And he liked me.”

Robert said nothing, waiting.

“I thought I was special. That what we had was something real. But it turned out I was simply a convenient distraction.”

John’s smile was small, wry.

“He made that very clear when he married a perfectly respectable young lady, all while assuring me that he ‘still cherished our time together.’”

Robert’s jaw tightened. “And so you left.”

“What else was I to do? Stay and watch him build a life while I became his dirty little secret?”

John let out a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it.

“No, I left. I studied. I became someone else. Someone clever. Someone untouchable. John Douglas was a foolish, naive boy. But Louis Annesley? He is no one’s fool.”

Robert was silent for a long moment. Then, very deliberately, he reached across the small table and covered John’s hand with his own.

“Johnny.”

Douglas stiffened. His breath caught audibly, and for the first time since Robert had met him, he looked entirely undone. He swallowed, his fingers twitching beneath Robert’s.

“Nobody has called me that,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Not in—God, not since—”

“I’ll call you Louis if that’s what you prefer,” Robert said. “But I’d like to know the man behind that name. And if that man is Johnny, then—”

“Then what?”

John’s voice was hoarse, but there was something fierce in his eyes, something afraid but also desperately wanting.

Robert’s thumb brushed over his knuckles.

“Then I’d very much like to meet him.”

For once, Louis Annesley—John Douglas—had no clever retort. He simply turned his hand over, gripping Robert’s in return, and let himself be seen. 

.