Date: Sun, 23 Oct 2022 15:19:27 -0400
From: Sebastiando <sebastiandorory@gmail.com>
Subject: Rory and Sebastian CH. 20

Author's Note: With apologies for the delay, there will not be that long
a gap again and to confirm, I know some readers think that this story has
"dragged on", but the intention behind this story is to look at a
relationship that evolves and changes over many years! Thank you for all
your comments.

== From Sebastian's POV ==

Rory stepped into my car as a light drizzle of rain fell over the
driveway leading up to his house. He was wearing a gray cashmere
roundneck and his hair held a slight residue of the mist-like rain from
outside. He gave a sigh of theatrical exhaustion as he sat in the
passenger seat, and leant over to kiss me, peck me, very lightly on the
lips. It was nice, it felt reassuring, but then that was probably why he
had done it - to calm me down. When you love someone like that, I think
you get into a weird kind of emotional infinity symbol of knowing how
well they know you and they know you know that they know... I don't know.
I'm rambling. Anyway!

"Hey," he said, breathlessly, after the kiss. He had dashed from the
house without a coat or umbrella. Clearly he assumed we were staying in
the car to talk, which was fine with me. There was more privacy that way,
in case anyone yelled, cried or, like last night, ended up inside each
other.

"Hey," I answered, turning the key. "Who'd you tell your parents you were
going out with tonight?"

"You," he answered. "Should I have lied?"

"You told them it was me?" I asked, half-looking at him but keeping my
eyes on the dark country road as I turned out of his driveway. "Rory!"

"What?"

"I assumed you'd lie to avoid questions. I thought you'd tell them you
were hanging out with Robbie or Virginia, not me! Jesus, Rory, if I'd
known you were going to tell the truth I'd've called to the door! Now I
look like a d-bag who waits in the driveway and doesn't call up to the
door to say hello to your parents. Fuck!"

"Sebastian, they know you. And we're not back together, yet, so... calm
down," he smiled, there was an incipit smile in everything he was saying.
I hadn't forgotten he could be like this, but I'd forgotten what it was
like when he did it; how it made me feel. He had a rare kind of charming
condescension, an endearing emotional snobbery, something that arose
through an innate and very loveable superiority, when he felt calm,
certain and in control. He used it with particular effect when he had to
stay calm for both of us. I wondered if he could sense how nervous I was.

It had all happened so quickly, from the accidental meeting in Edinburgh
to the totally unexpected sex at the wedding the night before. And now,
here I was; so very close to what I had wanted on some level for nearly
two years. Having suppressed the desire to be with Rory Masterton for the
best part of a year, it had all come flooding back to me and a nervous
ticking metronome of panic was clicking away in my head at the thought
that, having come so close and reawakened all those old feelings for him,
for us, it wouldn't happen. What was he going to say if, or rather, when,
I told him about how promiscuous I had been during our separation?
Morally, it wasn't as if I had done anything wrong. We had been broken up
for a long time when I first fucked somebody else and none of them had
even remotely come close to usurping Rory's place in my heart. But we
were at different universities now, separated more or less by the full
breadth of the United Kingdom, and if Rory thought sleeping around was a
compulsion, a habit that couldn't be broken, a cause for mistrust... It
wasn't. I knew it wasn't. Zac Efron could have lubed up and begged for it
and I'd've shrugged him off if Rory was free for so much as an afternoon
coffee, but still, the doubt remained that Rory would know know that. Or
not believe it.

"What's wrong?" he asked from the gloom of the car. "You're not as
loquacious as usual."

"I'm shitting myself, Rory."

"Aren't you seductive?"

"Seriously. You've no idea how nervous I am. Lame, right?"

"Adorable, actually. Turn left here."

"Isn't straight on quicker?"

"To where?"

"To the grove."

He shrugged, "The left's a better road."

"Maybe twist and turns just make the final destination feel like more of
an accomplishment," I said, flashing a grin. He rolled his eyes and
laughed, before staring out the window.

"Isn't it a horrible night? Weather-wise, I mean."

"It's December," I said. "That sweater looks really good on you."

"Thank you."

"It'd look better off, though."

"Haha. You left a mark on me, you know, from last night."

"Well, that's just for all those dudes up at Saint Andrew's to know that
you're mine now. Again. I dunno."

I pulled into the grove, a parking lot that on a clear day had a
beautiful view over the green trees of the Weald, but tonight it could
have been looking into a blackhole once I switched the headlights off.
Rory instinctively flicked the car locks on, a tribute to the
traumatization he suffered everytime he was forced to watch a slasher
movie. He looked over at me and smiled, "Slasher movies," he explained.

I nodded, "I know, Rory."

"So..." he said, angling towards me and unclicking his seat belt. He
brought his right leg up to perch slightly on the chair and he stared at
me. In the half-light being given off from my radio, his eyes swam with
questions and the cheekbones of just-the-littlest-bit-too-thin face were
beautifully lit up. Objectively, I knew Rory was never the most perfectly
handsome guy in the world, but he had a way with him, maybe only I saw
it, maybe only loves see it, I don't know, but he really could take my
breath away.

I turned to face him and sighed, "Yeah."

"We have a lot to talk about."

"I love you," I said. "I just wanted to get that out there. You've no
idea how nervous and happy and excited and shitting myself with fear I've
been since last night, Rory. I can't... I know we have a lot to talk
about, but I'm so completely in love with you that I will do anything
that needs to be done to make this work and I don't want to play any
games, because that's not us, it's not you and I. I just, before anything
was said, I wanted to say that." I smiled at him and he kissed me, hard,
impulsively and the gearstick certainly got in his way, but he did it and
I kissed him back. It wasn't sexual, it was just, well, I'm honestly not
entirely sure how to describe it. When he separated from it, the calm
he'd been wearing since he got into the car was rattled a little.

"I love you, too, Sebastian. I do, honestly, I know that..." He stopped
himself and took a breath. He bit the bottom of his lip slightly. "We
need to be able to talk about things though.There are things to talk
about." I nodded and he launched straight in with his first question,
"The first thing being, I suppose, to ascertain how mad you are at me?"

"I'm not mad at you. Why would I be mad?"

"Don't do that. Don't let's ignore everything unpleasant now until six
months down the line it becomes a huge thing that breaks us up a second
time round. You know that you are mad at me on some level, you're bound
to be angry. I got a little flash of it at the Balmoral when I brought up
Evan and Sarah. And when you referred to me as a 'blast from the past.'"

Jesus, he didn't miss a thing.

"So," he continued, "talk to me. How angry are you? Say what you need to
say."

I could hear the incipient nerves that he was trying so desperately and
masterfully to control. To anyone else, he would have appeared
unflappably serene, but I knew this performance was a bit like a swan in
motion with its feet paddling frantically beneath the surface.

"There have been times I've been angry at you, yes, of course, but
they're not enough to keep me from wanting you. Of course they aren't!
But Rory, I guess the thing that's always half-bothered me - and I know
it shouldn't, because the rest of the time I know the answer - but, why
did you do it? Maybe why's not even the right word; maybe 'how' is. That
night, that party, it wasn't, I mean, fuck, I'm not going to say it was
assault, but it wasn't consensual. I could barely stand and the guy just
launched himself at me and, okay, you're looking down, I can tell you
don't like hearing about it or imagining it, and I get that: if someone
had done it to you, the image of it in my head would've killed me, it
would've made me so fucking angry. But, Rory, the difference is I
wouldn't have broken up with you over it, not in a million fucking years.
I would've gone after the guy and beat the shit out of him, and that's
not bullshit machismo: I would've done it and you know I would have. I
could barely fucking stand and he... I just don't understand how you
weren't able to see it from my point of view, because it wasn't like I
was trying to pretend that it wasn't an awful thing to have happened or
that I didn't understand why you were upset. And when you slapped me,
punched me, whatever you want to call it and then you were in my arms,
sobbing, in my arms because of something I had done, Jesus, Rory, you've
no idea what that was like. It was the single most awful moment of my
life, it felt like I'd been punched right in the heart, and I was trying
so hard over the next few days to get you back, to hold on to what we
had, but I just feeling you slip away from me, completely... It was
fucking awful. And Rory, I loved you! I loved you so much and we had been
through so much. You were my boyfriend, the guy I loved totally, and you
were my best friend, too. It just seemed like it was so easy for you, and
I know," I held my hand up to stop up when he open his mouth to protest
that point, "I know it wasn't so easy, but it was too easy for you. I
couldn't have done what you did to us anymore than I could have walked to
the moon. And then to cut me out completely... I just, fuck, I don't
know. I don't know how you did it and part of me thinks, 'Shut your fat
fucking mouth and don't ask any questions that'll stop him wanting to get
back together with you again,' but the other part of me needs to know
that you won't do it again ... I don't want to go through the rest of our
relationship living with this fear that you could ditch me. That I'm an
optional or an addition. I don't know." My voice quivered, broke with
held-back tears, and I clenched my right fist and lightly thumped the
steering wheel with it. "Fuck. This is..."

There was a long silence that was only broken when I said, "Will you
please say something?" In response, he just shook his head and wiped his
cheek. "Don't cry, Rory," I said, reaching over and taking his hand. "I'm
not... I don't know where that came from. Don't cry."

"I'm fine. I'm dealing with trying to repress that for eighteen months,
Sebastian, so give me a minute."

Another pregnant silence settled over the car, broken only by the rain as
it evolved from a drizzle into a shower. The fingers of Rory's right hand
were beating nervously against his leg, in an increasingly fast pace
until they stopped and he lost the battle for self-control; a sob broke
from his throat and his shoulders sagged. In a few minutes, the entire
dynamic had changed and his calm, poised self-assurance had finally been
irrecoverably shattered.

"Oh, Rory, don't," I reached over to him and putting my arm around his
shoulder, pulled him in towards me. I felt a second of hesitation and
then he went with it, allowing himself to be awkwardly guided over
towards me. Instinctively, without thinking about it, the first
endearment of the evening slipped from my mouth, "Baby, shhh... come
here." His face pressed into the crook of my neck and I could feel the
tears on his cheek. "Baby... Rory. It's... I love you."

"I love you so much," he cried, softly. "I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything."

"I do and you know I do!"

He moved back to his seat and I rubbed his shoulder.

"I'm not saying this to make you feel worse, sweetheart, but you were
weird, uneasy, I guess, about us going away to different colleges
beforehand and I've always been worried that you - I don't want to say
'used' - but that what happened at that party sort of gave you an excuse,
a reason, a legitimization, whatever, to..."

Rory shook his head. "No, Sebastian, that's not what it was, at least not
consciously. You're so much better looking than I am that I was worried
that when you went to uni there'd be people throwing themselves at you,
left, right and centre, but I knew I was just going to have to get used
to that idea and to trust you. And I did. I do. But when that happened,
that kiss, something just snapped inside of me and I can't fully explain
what that was, although I suppose I should try to. Everything just went
into a kind of slightly manic overdrive. I was in therapy then, remember,
counselling for my stupid eating thing..."

"Rory, that's not stupid, by any stretch of the imagination..."

"Anyway, it was a good thing to go through, but when you're in it, it
kicks a hornets' nest. It strings you out while you're looking for
answers and that stringing out gives you less of an even keel. To extend
and distend the metaphor." A ghost of smile played on his lips at his
inarticulateness, but it faded quickly as he tried to explain why he had
behaved that way, though, as I'd said, a part of me already knew why. "I
was so fragile, panicky, I suppose, that when I heard about you and that
guy I knew that if we went to university with that still hanging over us,
it would drive me mad. And it would have, Sebastian. I can't tell you
that it was the right thing to do morally, but pragmatically, on some
level, I think it was. It was a reasonable reaction to a really shitty
string of circumstances and I wish I could tell you that it hadn't been
and I wish that I was half the boyfriend you are, were, will be, but I
dropped the ball because I just didn't know how to play the game. I'm so
sorry; you are..."

"What?" I prompted.

"The love of my life. You are. I think about you all the time and it took
so much self-control not to text you or call you or Facebook you anytime
I was down or upset or really happy. Even now, I just want your arms
around me and to love you and make you happy. But I feel as if you need
to shout at me, so that you can get these things off your chest?"

"I don't want to shout at you, Rory, but before we go any further you
should know that there were other guys at college. Quite a few."

"I know that," he said.

"How? Because you always thought I was a bit of a slut? I guess I've no
reason to get pissed off about that, now."

The rain was getting much heavier outside. Driving back would be a
nightmare.

"I know because people talk," Rory said, gently, "and because I assumed
you'd have... fun... at university, Sebastian, if you were single."

"It was just sex," I said. "No one could ever replace you. Last night,
when you were lying in front of me, naked, Rory, I couldn't believe how
happy I was that you were there. I realized how much I'd missed it, you,
how stupid it was to think that anyone could ever replace you. You're my
guy. You always have been. Evan used to say that he knew him and Sarah
were meant to be together after they broke up when he figured that random
hook-ups meant nothing to him anymore, that they left him feeling a bit
sickened, and wanting nobody but her. I feel that way and then some, now.
I don't think what I did was wrong and I don't hate the guys I did it
with, but even during it, there were times I was comparing it to you and
nobody ever rose to the challenge of even seeming like a disadvantaged
competitor. I love sex, but I love it with you more than anyone else and
I love you more than it, me and pretty much anything else combined. I
need you to trust me, because I want this to work and I want it to work
in a way that makes you as happy as I can. I don't want you sitting in
Saint Andrew's worrying about some guy throwing himself on me in London
because, believe me, no matter how drunk I get I won't let that happen
again and it'll always be you that I want. If you are ever in my arms
sobbing again, Rory, I swear to God that I want to be sure that I didn't
cause it. I want to be the one that wipes away your tears, not fucking
causes them. And that sounds like something from a Ryan Gosling movie,
but I do mean it and you know that. Don't you?"

He nodded.

"Anyway," I prompted, "you said last night that there had been other guys
that you'd..."

I paused, why couldn't I finish the sentence? I wasn't a prude, I had a
very matter of fact attitude to sex, particularly with him. I'd joked
about it right after he got into the car. I'd just told him about my own
sex life. But the words stuck in my throat; on some instinctive level I
just could not bring myself to say "had sex with" in relation to Rory and
somebody else.

"Had sex with?" He finished, interlacing his fingers with mine. I nodded
tersely. "Yes," he said. "There were two. The first one was awful. It
wasn't you and it just felt... awful. I hated it. The second guy, it
happened more regularly, obviously. I was actually on top for most of
that one, which..."

"For fuck's sake, Rory, I don't need the details."

"Sorry," he said, looking surprised by my tone. Which, I'll admit, was
aggressive. Far more than I'd intended it to be, it just sort of fell out
of me. I hated the idea of him with anyone else.

"I didn't give you details or numbers," I said, defensively.

"Well, that's probably because you couldn't count that high," Rory shot
back. "Sorry, I shouldn't have said. Why are you being so weird?"

"The idea of you having sex with anyone else makes me really unhappy."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, the second guy, the regular one,
wasn't a fuck-buddy or anything else. We were dating at the time."

I think he knew as soon as he'd said it that it had made things a million
times worse.

"You dated somebody else?" I said, turning to look at him in full. He
nodded and opened his mouth to say something, but I cut him off by
repeating my original question.

"Yes."

"For how long?"

I didn't know what he was going to say but I certainly didn't expect the
answer, "Four months." It was like being punched in the gut and I was
very nearly shouting at him, even though I knew I was being totally
hypocritical and very rude.

"Four fucking months?! Rory, how is that even fucking possible? When I
ran into you in Edinburgh - fuck it - when I ran into you in Edinburgh, I
had kind of been seeing someone in London and when I say 'kind of being
seeing someone', I mean that I had been occasionally going for dinner
with him on a fairly fucking infrequent basis and that was the first time
I'd been in any kind of regular even faintly romantic setting with anyone
in the last eighteen months. I was still referring to you as someone I'd
'just broken up with' for about 9 months after you dumped me. And
obviously my heart was never really in it with Daniel. The minute I saw
you at the hotel, it was sayonara for him and me. I don't care if I never
see him again and the second I got back to my friend's apartment in
Edinburgh and he found out that it was you I'd ran into, even he knew
that there was no way anyone could compete with you. That's the level
that people at my college know about you, and they've never even met you!
I never ... Rory, how could you date someone for four months? Date
someone! What was the little fucker's name?"

"You said you didn't want details," he said, firmly. I started to falter,
my tone began to lose its belligerence; it wasn't fair the way I was
reacting, especially when he'd taken the news that I'd fucked all around
me with such comparative grace and tact. But this was worse, much worse;
the idea of him snuggling into someone the way he used to with me,
kissing them, smiling for them like we used to smile at each other,
sharing jokes. It was primal and caveman-like, sure, but I felt so
possessive and upset by the thought of it.

"Did you love him?"

"How could I love someone who wasn't you?" He said it with such sincerity
and total simplicity that it stopped me in my tracks. "Please take my
hand again," he asked, his voice rising and falling softly, undulating
and pulling me in. I took his hand and he ran his free hand through the
back of my hair.

"You mustn't be sad," he intoned. He'd said that to me once before, long
before, and the tone was the same. Polished, elegant, flickering tones
and lyrical smoothness. "You mustn't be angry, my darling. It's happened
now and it's in the past."

I nodded.

"Talk to me," he commanded, beautifully.

I shook my head and lifted my head, my heart skipped a beat and my hand
tightened around his. We were together again, everything seemed to melt
away for a moment. "I love you."

"I love you, too, very, very much," he answered.

"It's just very hard for me to think of you as somebody else's boyfriend.
Excruciating, actually, Rory."

"And it makes me want to vomit with fear at how much sex you've had. But
it's happened, Sebastian, and we've come out of it still in love with
each other. Haven't we?"

"Of course we have. You're my guy," I repeated.

"And you're mine. All these things, they're not going to matter if we
hold onto each other. If we talk about them now, we'll find a way through
them. I don't want to be without you again and I never want to let you
go."

I smiled and the rain outside poured down harder. We stayed there for
another forty-five minutes, I think, maybe a little longer. I drove him
home and we began to laugh a little, at some memories and some random
observations from the wedding the night before, the past and the future
colliding nicely with each other. He shut down the idea of us formally
reconciling there and then in the car, because he didn't want to restart
the relationship in the car where we had both made each other cry. I
understood that and when I dropped him off home, he kissed me on the
cheek. After he left and I drove back to my house, his smell lingered in
the car and I already missed him. By the time I got back, I had a text
from him: -

"I love you. See you tomorrow at 11 xx"

***

== From Rory's POV ==

The next day dawned cold and clear, with the air only just a little damp
from the heavy rainfall the night before. It would lift as the day
dragged on. The sky was clear.

I can remember glancing out my bedroom window at half-past eight and
feeling so completely elated. I can't explain why the news of Sebastian's
other sexual partners didn't bother me too hysterically. In part, it was
quite obviously because the gossip mill had given me a heads-up. I knew
it was coming and I had mentally prepared myself by being firm with my
own neuroses. After all, it had been my decision to end things and to
maintain distance for so long. What had I expected: that he would remain
a monk? Yes, of course, on some level there was a part of me that would
have been overjoyed and immensely soothed if he could have told me
honestly that there had been no-one else. Or, at the very least, only a
very few. But I could be a realist when dragged to it. Sebastian was
confident, handsome, a little cocky and very sexy. I hadn't asked him to
take a vow of celibacy for me and I had no right to, either. When I sat
down next to him in his car the night before, I had been holding myself
in, steeling myself for the test of seeing how much damage had been done
and how I would - or could - handle it. I had been surprised that it
turned out that the real emotional damage, at least in the long-term, had
been more on his end than mine. And he had taken the news of my
relationship, that half-baked sequel to mine and his, far more painfully
than I had taken the final confirmation of his active sex life.

I stepped into my shower and adjusted the nozzle as the too-hot water
caused me to start. I began to lather up and congratulated myself on
remaining so calm about his other partners, in what must have been a
sure-fire testament to my personal growth. I knew that running into any
of the people he'd gone to bed with would hurt, but when would that
happen? And even if it did and it was uncomfortable, uncomfortable things
are a part of life: was any of it really worth not being with him, again?
Was anything?

I thought of Alisdair, Sebastian's temporary replacement. A lovely guy.
Clever, elegant, funny, confident, but not Sebastian. In my eyes, who
could compete? Whatever happened next, whatever had happened since, from
the moment I had collided with him in the streets outside my hotel in
Edinburgh, I had known that there was no going back. I had known it ever
since Alisdair and I had broken up, or perhaps it's safer to say drifted
apart, at the end of the summer term. I must have. On paper, Alisdair was
perfect. I stepped out of the shower and glanced at myself in the mirror
- naked and slightly wrinkled from the water. I steeled myself to look,
inhaled and mentally steading myself. The love bites were still on my
torso and I ran my fingers over them lightly. Had I ever, realistically,
believed that there was any way I'd be completely happy away from
Sebastian?

After I was dressed - jeans, black sweater, newish shoes - I curled up in
an armchair in my room and tried to read. There was already a text from
Sebastian: "Can we meet at 10? xx"

"Sure," I responded, mentally panicking that he had changed his mind.
"Why? xx"

A few seconds later came the response: "I just can't wait to be next to
you again. Spent 2 much time apart. I feel like this text merits an
emoji?"

I smiled and wrote back, "I'd rather kill myself than use an emoji. 10
works fine. I can't wait to see you again."

I can't remember what the book in my hands was. Some novel that on
another day I might have enjoyed. I picked a wax jacket out of my
wardrobe, scarf and gloves and walked down the stairs at 9.55. My brother
Dermot, in the standard rugby sixth year boy's day-off ensemble of
sweatpants and t-shirt, was in the sitting room just off from our
entrance hall. The beautiful Christmas tree twinkled behind him, as he
munched a bowl of cereal and watched TV.

"Where are you going?" he asked, barely flicking his eyes away from his
crappy show.

"Out," I replied.

"No shit, Raz. Who with?"

"Pardon?"

Dermot and I are nobody's fool and we could read each other and the rest
of our family very well. He turned to look at me, his face now glowering
with undisguised and knowing antipathy. "Seriously? 'Pardon?' You clearly
heard me."

I rolled my eyes. "Don't start, Dermot."

"He's a cunt."

He had swivelled in his armchair to engage fully in the conversation and
I felt myself getting angry. The coat felt heavy over my arm. "He is not
a cunt," I answered, firmly. "You liked him."

"Past being the operative tense."

"He didn't..."

"He broke your heart."

"It was complicated."

"Nope," he said, angrily, "it wasn't. You love him. I get that, whatever.
But he's still a cunt, Rory. And he'll do it again."

"You don't even know if we're getting back together!" I snapped. Why the
fuck had I said that? It would just make telling him later even worse.

"I know you. When you didn't want to get back together with Sebastian
Carson, you kept him as far away from you as you could. And since the
wedding... For fuck's sake, Raz. You deserve better."

"I think I can be the judge of that, don't you?"

"Yeah, you're right," Dermot said, with tidal-wave levels of sarcasm.
"I'm just your brother. Why the fuck should anything I say matter?"

"Well try fucking acting like it then!" I shouted. I swung the front door
open, stepped out of the house and slammed the door behind me. Sebastian
was getting out of his car in the driveway, determined to knock on the
door this time. I had to give him points for manners and moxie.

"What's wrong?" he asked, instinctively.

"Nothing," I lied. "Where do you want to go?"

I was walking towards the car, but he crossed round and stood in front of
me, taking my hand. "You're shaking."

"Nothing, I'm just... Stupid family stuff. Can we go?"

He glanced over at the house, then back to me: "Sure."

To his credit, as we drove to the forest car park where, two years ago
we'd gone walking and had rambunctious sex in the rain, Sebastian did not
ask anymore questions. If there was anymore proof needed that he knew the
argument had been about him, his silence was it. He was too good and too
selflessly noble in a crisis to ask, "Was it about me?" in case it
magnified the stress or put himself in the centre of attention. He kept
up a steady stream of distracting chatter and it reminded me of how much
I loved him: he wasn't an emotional voyeur. He knew when to get angry and
when to get involved; he knew when to step back and let things slide.
It's a rare skill. Like so many of his.

We drove past Saint Eustace's Church and I blessed myself. A fond and
teasing smile tugged at the corners of his lips, but he said nothing. We
reached the car park and stepped out in the freezing December air. He
reached into the back for his own coat, tugging it on over a thick
cableknit sweater he was wearing.

"So?" He said, falling into step next to me as the winter sun splintered
into light around us.

"So," I answered. An emotional call and response. I put my hand above my
eyes to shield out some of the Sun's blinding glare.

"Are you my boyfriend again?"

"Am I yours?" Mary, Mother of God, that was a pathetic response! How
cringe-inducing. Why did I say that? Fix it! "Yes."

A smile broke across his face. Both our faces. And he leant in to kiss
me. I wish I could tell you that after so long it had been a moment of
sublime melodrama, of angst and tears and passion, like the time he flung
me up against the tree in the driving rain the first time we kissed. Or
his plate-smashing loving fury at his uncle's cottage. But it wasn't.
After eighteen months, the finale had been transformed into an
intermission and it all slotted very gently back into place. We fell back
in to one another, into each other, into us, on a cold crisp English
winter's day and as I felt our fingers interlock as he kissed me, all I
could do was devoutly thank God for bringing him back to me.

***

Our mutual friend Robbie took the news of our reunion even better than I
had expected. Although Robbie had been angry on my behalf during our
break-up and, with Virginia, even helped determine it in their own way,
he had remained close to Sebastian, Seb, as he and everyone bar myself,
his mother and Virginia, called him. Robbie was, I think, lad enough to
sympathise with Sebastian with the benefit of hindsight. He smiled when I
told him and clapped me on the shoulder, "I think that's for the best,"
he grinned. "I always hoped you two'd work it out eventually."

Virginia was more sanguine, but hardly condemnatory. She raised the issue
of the distance between Saint Andrew's and London, but, that aside, she
simply asked how I felt about it, commented that she had felt sorry for
Sebastian in her own way when we broke-up and said, with the kind of firm
pragmatism I loved about her, that no-one knew a relationship better than
the two people involved. Our "In a relationship with" moment on Facebook,
a staple in the cyber age which Sebastian insisted upon honouring, drew
dozens of likes but Dermot and I did not thaw to one another for at least
a week and his non-like of the status was, to me, louder than the dozens
who did click.

My brother point-blank refused to even acknowledge Sebastian's name in
conversation, left the room when I told my parents we were dating again,
went upstairs when he saw Sebastian pulling into our driveway and since
I'd be damned before I'd climb down over this before he would, we were
still technically on non-speakers with one another when we went to
Midnight Mass with our family on Christmas Eve.

As the candles flickered in the gloom of the chapel, the heavy scent of
incense swirled around us and Father Bridgeway intoned the Mystery of
Faith, my father glanced down the pew to throw a reproving glance at
Dermot and I, who were sitting next to each other but yet to even look in
one another's direction until the Sign of Peace forced us to shake hands
half-way through the service. "God be with you," Dermot said, quietly.

"And also with you," I replied.

He half-smiled awkwardly and hunched over. Then he nudged my shoulder,
"Happy Christmas, Raz."

"Happy Christmas, Dermot."

"Hail Mary, Full of Grace," sang Father Ridgway, "The Lord is with Thee!
Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of Thy Womb,
Jesus."

As we sang back, "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and
at the hour of our death," I saw my father nod with curt approval at the
rapprochement between his two eldest.

***

===From Sebastian's POV===

Two days after Christmas, Evan sat opposite me at the local McDonald's,
where we'd stopped en route home from the stables where our horses were
stabled. I was starving and as we tucked into our food, he raised the
subject of New Year's Eve.

"Have you two any plans?"

I nodded and swallowed, "Yes and no. Dominic's having a big NYE part, but
Rory got wind that Joshua Peterly is on the invite list and doesn't want
to go."

"Is that the guy you used to hook-up with before him in school?"

"Yup - shithead," I took a drink. "I fucking hate the little dickhead, so
I'm fine with staying in, too. All our friends are going to Dominic's and
Rory thinks it'd be too aggro to start an alternative party all because
of Joshua. So we're probably just going to stay in at ours. I've already
said to Mom and Dad, and they're cool with it."

"That's probably for the best," Evan agreed. "I think Sarah and I are
going to spend a few hours there, then head over to her sister's for
about 10.30."

"Awesome."

"Mom was so pleased you and Rory were back together," Evan grinned. "You
couldn't have asked for her to like him more, right?"

I smiled, "Yeah, that was really nice. Jenny, too. His brother wasn't
exactly thrilled, you know."

"How many does he have?"

"Three," I answered, "but the eldest, after him, Dermot's, in Upper Sixth
now and I think he knew a bit more about what went on when we broke-up. I
like Dermot, so it's a bit annoying, but I guess he was there to see how
upset Rory was..."

"I was there to see how upset you were and I don't dislike or blame
Rory," my brother interjected, clearly a little riled on my behalf. "Why
does this kid feel the need to get involved?"

"Same reason you feel the need to get involved now, Evan," I jibed.

"Fair," he laughed. "Have you two spoken about visiting each other or how
you're going to make it work when you go back for next semester?"

I swirled a fry around in barbeque sauce. "We have. He's coming down to
visit first and then we'll be together half-way through semester when we
go to Leeds to visit Robbie for his birthday and then towards the end,
I'll go stay with him for a few nights in Saint Andrew's. And Skype at
least twice a week."

"Saint Andrew's is supposed to be really stunning," said Evan. "You'll
love it. History geek."

"Yeah, the only thing is, and it sounds fucking dumb, but Rory's
ex-boyfriend lives in the halls next to his up there and apparently they
have a lot of mutual friends. I'm kind of worried of what it will be like
to meet him, because it's more or less impossible that we won't if
everyone's going out together. And I'm not sure how I feel about it. It
makes me really... I dunno..."

"This is the guy he dated for a few weeks..."

"... Four months..."

"... when you two weren't together?"

"Yup. I asked Robbie. The guy's name was Alisdair, does Theology, just
like Rory. Robbie never met him, but..."

"Seb, stop this. Don't let it get in your head as something to be
paranoid about. He broke-up before you two started to get back together
again, didn't he?"

"Yeah, but..."

"Then clearly it wasn't working for reasons totally unrelated to you! Do
not make this a big thing. Especially since he has been nothing but very,
very supportive and understanding of how many guys you hooked-up with
when you two split-up. Look, Sarah dated two other guys when her and I
broke up. Did I like it? Of course I fucking didn't, but it happened,
it's life and you have to move on with it, you know? If you don't want
Rory to fling your actions in your face, you can't make a big deal out of
his. And Seb, look, even leaving aside relationship tactics, anyone can
see when he's around you that he absolutely adores you. And the feeling's
mutual. Listen to me, you met the one when you were eighteen years-old. I
have a feeling, and my gut tells me I'm right, Rory is my future
brother-in-law because you are going to marry your high school
sweetheart. And that's incredible. You've got him back and this kid
Alisdair, for all you know, might have no interest in Rory anymore. They
dated for a few weeks, months, whatever, in their first year of college.
That's hardly unusual! You're with the guy you love and who loves you.
Don't freak out about anything. It's not like you!"

I smiled, "Thanks, Evan. Are you going to finish those fries?"

"Yeah, I am. Touch them, and I'll break your fucking fingers, dude."

***

Just after midnight, and the Auld Lang Syne, Rory and I slipped into my
bedroom at my parents' house. I turned the main light on, walked over to
my bedside table, turned the lamp on and Rory clicked the main light off.
The room was bathed in its soft glow, flowing over the contours of Rory's
face as he walked towards me. We kissed each other deeply and my hands
went round his waist, pulling him in closer until he was pressed tightly
against me. His trailed awkwardly up my back until they were on the back
of my neck.

"Happy New Year, I suppose," he said, as we separated. My right hand
snaked round to his front and went down to the crotch of his trousers,
massaging his building thickness through the fabric. I pulled him back
into me for another kiss and began slowly shuffling him backwards towards
the bed, until he crumpled over onto it and I lowered myself in with him.
I was hard and began to unbutton his shirt. When it had separated along
the buttonholes and fallen on either side of his body, I stepped back
and, looming over him, pulled my red Christmas sweater off and shucked it
to one side. I was completely topless as I leaned back in towards him,
but just before our lips locked again, his right hand came up to my chest
and stopped me going any further.

"Wait," he said. I leaned back, supporting myself with my arms on either
side of him. Beneath me, those big beautiful dark eyes of his were
swimming with an emotion that even I couldn't decipher.

"What is it?" I asked, softly, stopping down to kiss him gently on the
side of his neck. But his right hand didn't go away and I was gently
nudged back into my former position.

"I've just realised something," he said, in some kind of half-whisper.

"What, baby?"

'I've just sort of figured out... it's just sort of hit me that this is
the last time I'll ever have sex with someone different again in my whole
life. I know the wedding was, technically, but I didn't... I mean, this
is definite. There'll never be anybody else as long as I live. I'm just
very happy. I wanted to say it. I wanted you to know."

I felt my lip quiver and my chest contract. My hand went round the back
of his neck and pulled him in towards me again. My tongue slipped into
his mouth possessively. His torso crushed his right hand, still there,
into mine. Mid-kiss, I began to unbuckle his belt and yank off his
trousers.

"Me too, Rory," I said, flipping him over onto his front, pulling off
shoes, socks and boxers and pulling his ass cheeks apart. I began to lick
his asshole, lubricating it up with my spit, by the time he was wet
enough for me to slip a finger in there I angled myself until I was on
top of him and I kept fingering him as I whispered in his ear: "I love
you so much and I will ask you to marry me one day."

"Just make it special," Rory quipped. "How do you it may as well be a
surprise, since we already know what the answer's going to be!"

I made love to him twice that night and again in the shower in the
morning. At four a.m., as I was riding him bareback and his legs were
draped over my shoulder, I planted two hickies on him as he bit down on
the pillow, half-laughing and half-groaning at the juvenile gestures, and
nervous of waking my parents up, four doors down. The next morning, I
watched him as he slept and I pulled him, naked, into me, nuzzling my
dick against his ass. I felt contented as he half-stirred next to me and
that feeling lasted for the next week until it was time to separate. We
drove together to London with Evan, who dropped Rory off at Heathrow for
a flight north to Edinburgh. I felt nauseous as he pulled away from me to
pass security. He turned round and smiled encouragingly, but there was
pain in his smile as I think he realised just how upset I was to be away
from him. We started texting by the time I was back in Evan's car and for
the first few weeks, we kept up the schedule we'd agreed upon.

But the thought of Rory returning to halls adjacent to his ex-boyfriend
gnawed away at me, despite Evan's words, Robbie's texts of encouragement
and Helen, my Northern Irish flatmate's, joy that this guy who she'd
never met had gotten back together with me. I guess my friends had heard
so much about him that they couldn't help but know how excited I'd be
that we were a couple again. But the images of Alisdair being near to
Rory were not helped when I began a stupid perusal of his Facebook page;
the guy was quite goodlooking and he had that compulsively well-bred look
that the British upper-classes, English, Welsh, Northern Irish and
Scottish, can all simultaneously pull off.

Rory's visit to me in London put Alisdair right out of my head for the
time being. The only way to describe Rory that week was radiant, that
charm that he used so self-consciously to make people enamoured with him
was on full display, he was the life and soul of the party, he was funny,
he was charming, he was interested in everything people had to say.
Within fifteen minutes of meeting him, Helen liked him more than she
liked me. I jest. Kind of. The only fly in the ointment was my flatmate
Pete, who was good friends with Daniel, the guy I'd ditched the second I
ran into Rory in Edinburgh and who had taken it very badly, to my
surprise. Pete was chilly with Rory, which I thought was understandable
but pretty unfair. Rory affected not to notice for the first two days but
after repeated attempts at politeness, his cold snobbery reared its
defensive head again and he repaid Pete's coldness with similar
behaviour.

Sexually, Rory and I were right back to where we had started, with me
always on top, and even throwing in a few new moves from what I had
learned in his absence, most of which brought him screaming or cooing
into cum-splattering - and we had a 50/50 split on blowjobs and rimming.
The sex was fantastic and Helen gave me the cheekiest wink in the kitchen
when she'd woken up the sound of Rory and I going at it one morning, when
we assumed they had all left for class. I smirked and winked back. If
Rory was making noise while I was making love, then I was doing my job
right.

When we met in Leeds, a few weeks later, a city between London and
Edinburgh, there were a lot of our old schoolfriends around for Robbie's
birthday. Because of the number of people showing up, there obviously
wasn't room at Robbie's halls and so Rory and I had booked into a cheap
and cheerful Travel Lodge room near the city center. I checked in first
and he arrived an hour later; I swooped him up into arms, feeling how
cold his cheeks were from the February air, and kissing him on the lips,
before giving him a little peck on the nose. It was going to be a messy
weekend, which we were both looking forward to, since the whole group
hadn't properly been together since A-Level results' night at the end of
final year, but it was also nice to have a room to ourselves and to spend
a few hours on our own.

As I caught up on a paper I had to read for class, Rory lay on the bed
with me, his head on my stomach, stretched out and reading "Great
Expectations" by Charles Dickens, one of my favorite reads. I stroked his
hair with my spare hand as we read in silence and from time to time, I'd
glance down from my pages to look at him, engrossed in his novel, his
eyes intensely focused on what he was reading. I loved him so much and
it'd be a wonderful feeling telling him that my uncle had given us his
cottage to stay in for a few days at the end of semester, so we'd be
going right from my trip to visit him in Saint Andrew's south to the
cottage. It was the same cottage in which we'd once argued,
spectacularly, about his eating disorder, but here's hoping this time
round it'd go a lot better. I couldn't wait. Rory has a quality that I've
always loved, in which once you've achieved total familiarity, total
comfort, with him, you're always kind of hankering to be back in that
state again.

That day in Leeds, I planned to have sex with him before we went to meet
the others; it turned me on to know we'd been that close only moments
before he turned up so prim, so proper, so well put-together, with
everyone else.

"You know he nearly changed the ending?" he said, from his spot on my
stomach.

"Dickens?" I asked, although it seemed a fairly fucking obvious question.

He nodded, "They very nearly didn't get together in the end."

"Hmmm. It doesn't make sense," I mused, "that they'd just meet up in that
garden and then not get together."

"I don't think they did meet in the garden in the original ending,
actually," Rory said, adjusting his head slightly, for comfort's sake.
"They met in Piccadilly, or somewhere in London, I think, and they bumped
into each other by accident but nothing ever came of the conversation.
They kind of just admitted they'd loved each other once and moved on."

"Fuck, that's a depressing ending, after reading the whole book to find
out they couldn't make it work and his whole life had been a lie."

"I know. Some people think the ending he went for was a cop-out, a play
for popularity," Rory said, getting up to pour himself a glass of water,
"but I think he made the right choice. It makes more sense and sometimes
it's best to listen to people."

"It doesn't even make sense, though, that they'd not get together."

"I know, but in the original ending, Estella had re-married in the time
they were apart. She'd found someone else."

Rory resumed his place on my stomach and re-opened "Great Expectations".
I felt a slight twinge of irrational hatred towards Alisdair again, a guy
I'd never met.

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