He knew that in some ways he was a charity case—though he did work hard, harder than most, and was athletic and intelligent and generally easy to like—so he put up with it, being a symbol, proof of Gwynns Academy’s supposed generosity. He tried to use the good manners his mother had never taught him, and he tried to fit in, but donors liked to see his rough edges, the ways his clothes were a little too big; they took one look at him and pulled out their checkbooks.

He was the model of their philanthropy and an easy excuse for their tax deductions.

And that was all right. It was just one more price he had to pay.

So yeah, big parties, cocktails he wasn’t supposed to drink, and at one of those first events a well-dressed woman put a hand on his arm, kind and impersonal, and he started breathing too hard, his tie choking him, and he went to hide in the coat closet.

Where he bumped right into a short, pudgy gentleman who was staring mournfully at his undone polka-dotted bow tie, lying limp in his hands. “Sorry, I—”

“It’s all right,” the man mumbled, but he didn’t look up from his crumpled silk tie. “I’m lost.”

“Um.” Jack looked around the closet, wondering how one could get lost in this small space, and if he should indicate the way out.

“I hate these things.” The man waved the bow tie around and sighed.

“Oh?” Jack had a terrible moment when he thought he might laugh, which seemed inappropriate. The poor guy really did look pathetic. “Would you like some, um, help?”

He nodded, and Jack carefully took up and knotted the silk tie, his fingers brushing a smooth-shaved neck.

“There. Um.”

“Thank you kindly...”

“Jack.”

“Jack.” He smiled, dimples in his plump cheeks. “Franklin Smith.” He held out his hand; they shook.

“Nice to meet you, Mr.—”

“Frank’ll do.”

Jack was unaccountably charmed, some anxiety within him easing. Frank was—different to all the others at this dull event. More real, somehow, in a suit which looked impeccably tailored and in which Frank looked deeply uncomfortable. There was something about him that was—that echoed in Jack, some sort of sameness, like two fish that had found themselves outside of their tank.

He smiled at Frank, Frank’s eyes twinkling. Then he set his shoulders, realizing that he’d been in here quite long enough, and that it was time to return to stilted conversations and condescending smiles.

“I hate these things, too.” Frank gave him a kind look, perceptive and speaking aloud Jack’s thoughts. “Been coming for years, now, can’t say no.”

“Hmm.” Jack put his hands in his pockets.

“They never leave you alone if they think you have something to give.”