Grace by lanyon

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Chapter 1

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Whether that was the day he truly started living or he truly started dying, Lewis would never know. He hadn’t even heard him come in; he had been too busy with another customer. He wondered whether that was strange – to have missed the moment Jamie entered his life.

The exact moment he first saw him was imprinted on his memory. Jamie. James. James F Bailey. Strange that he never learned what the F stood for. But that was later. For now, a complete stranger was browsing in the poetry section, his lips moving silently as he read.

Lewis firmly believed that all great poetry could only be read aloud. Maybe that’s why Jamie caught his attention. Or maybe it was the way his brow was slightly furrowed, or the way his eyes moved rapidly over the page or the way a lock of hair fell forward onto his face and he didn’t bother pushing it back because that would take time away from poetry.

Jamie was lost in his own world and Lewis found that his gaze was drawn back to him repeatedly over the course of the next few hours. Wherever he was in the shop, whether at the cash register, or stacking books, or reaching up to a higher shelf to reach a novel for an old lady (a trashy romance novel that she had wanted for years), Lewis kept looking back at this person. Jamie hardly moved in all that time, except to pull down another book and another.

Lewis remembered Geoffrey piping up at that point, something asinine about a voracious appetite for poetry. He also remembered being pushed forward to serve Jamie when he finally approached the desk to pay for his purchases. A John Donne anthology and Sylvia Plath’s Ariel.

That was the moment Lewis should have spoken. Instead, he watched Jamie walk out of the door, having counted his change out into his hand.

“Batter my fucking heart,” he murmured just as the door was closing. Jamie paused on the step. Glanced back inside. And kept walking.

The next few days passed all too slowly. He couldn’t take his mind off Jamie, even though he was still nameless in Lewis’ mind. Geoffrey referred to him as the “pale poet”. Actually, Geoff referred to him as “Pale Poet, GSOH, Looking for SWM, Age 18-25, for deep meaningful conversations and hot sex.”

Lewis told Geoffrey to piss off.

Geoffrey just laughed.

 

Their next meeting was inauspicious serendipity, clouded as it was in heavy autumnal rain and lifeless thoughts. A coffee shop, frequented by students and workers. Actually, it was the door of the coffee shop. Lewis was walking in as Jamie was walking out. It was a snapshot memory. Jamie’s slender fingers were wrapped around a paper coffee cup, absorbing the heat. Later, that would strike Lewis as strange for Jamie was always anything but cold. His skin was invariably hot to the touch, a strange thing, enticing and extraordinary. Again, his memories were getting ahead of him. The coffee shop. Where he opened the door and walked straight into Jamie. Spilt coffee (no use crying over it, Jamie said later) and Lewis’ college books on the ground, covered in coffee and rain and some soggy dead leaves.

They both crouched down to pick up the books, some innate panic within them both that, above all else, the books must be saved. When they stood up, they exchanged blushes and smiles. (It could have been worse, Jamie said later. What if it hadn’t happened at all?)

After the encounter at the coffee shop door, it seemed only right that Lewis should buy Jamie another cup of coffee.

That single cup of coffee turned into an entire day of missed lectures on Lewis’ part and lost business on Jamie’s. They talked animatedly about Oxford and poetry and music and fast food.

Day stretched to evening. Closing time to dinner time. A curry house, inexpensive and informal. More hours; happy, laughing hours passed, punctuated by occasional shy expressions, half-curious, half-come hither.

On that first night there was no kiss, just a promise of another day like this one. (When? Soon.)

When Lewis returned to his flat that night, Geoffrey was waiting.

“Perfect attendance,” he asked with an arched eyebrow. “Your pride and joy? I could have sworn you left it around here somewhere. And you didn’t help close up the shop this evening.”

Lewis shrugged and mumbled something intelligible. His blush told rather more than his words, or lack thereof.

Geoffrey sat bolt upright. “Please tell me you found Mr. Tall, Dark and Brooding,” he said before pointing at Lewis. “I will accept no lesser excuse.”

Lewis just smiled and ducked his head.

Geoffrey punched the air with his fist. “Yes! About bloody time! Our boy Lewis has, in fact, pulled.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Lewis bashfully.

“You just spent the entire day in his company, yes?”

Lewis nodded.

“Then, my friend, you have most assuredly pulled.”

 

 

The next time Lewis saw Jamie was in one of the student bars he had mentioned at some point during their day together. He probably would have been happier to see him had he not been standing behind the mic for Karaoke night, having been dragged up there by a girl in his seminar group who, as Geoffrey said, was “besotted with Lewis and a little dim.”

Lewis had never been so embarrassed in his life. Jamie paused in the doorway, s small smile forming on his lips. He walked to the bar and ordered a drink before sitting down to listen to Lewis and Amanda give a rather muted rendition of “Fairytale of New York.”

When the song was finally over (and hadn’t it seemed interminable to Lewis?), he walked over to Jamie, cringing slightly. “I’m sorry to have put you through that.”

“Why?” asked Jamie mildly. “You have a pleasant voice.”

“And it’s even more pleasant when he’s not impersonating Shane McGowan,” chirped Amanda who had come up behind Lewis, wrapped her arms around his waist. “Who’s your friend, Lewis?” she asked, eyeing Jamie with no little interest.

“This is Jamie,” said Lewis, looking more embarrassed than before.

“Hi, Jamie!” said Amanda cheerfully. “I’m Amanda. Never Mandy though!”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” said Jamie, smiling a little.

“Why don’t you come sit with us?” asked Amanda, indicating a table in the corner.

“Oh, I’m sure he…” began Lewis, rather unwilling to unleash his friends on Jamie.

“…would love to,” finished Jamie firmly.

So they all sat down; Lewis, Jamie and Amanda with Geoffrey (who kept giving Lewis knowing looks and Jamie rather appreciative ones), Terry (who rather liked the sound of his own booming voice), John, Edward, Rebecca and Sally.

Amanda positioned herself on Lewis’ lap much to Geoffrey’s evident exasperation. The conversation was good-natured, if a little rowdy and, although they were frequently drowned out by the karaoke singers, their group would simply talk a little louder (which was no loss to the musical world.)

“Tell us about yourself, Jamie,” said Geoffrey, swirling the remained of the ale in his pint glass.

“Yes, do!” pleaded Amanda. “You’ve been so quiet – we must seem like such hooligans!”

Jamie chuckled. “I grew up in a large, extended family; believe me when I say that you are much more civilised than many of them.” He glanced around the group and didn’t seem perturbed, or even surprised, that they were all listening to him avidly. Even the background noise in the pub seemed to fade away a little as his soft voice cut through everything. “I run a small company that restores books. We also track down rare editions for the discerning book buyer.”

“Ho! That sounded like a dig, Lewis, old man!” roared Terry, whose voice seemed impossibly cacophonic after Jamie’s quiet tones. “Bet your bookshop can’t boast about its discerning clientele!”

“You bastard!” cried Geoffrey jovially. “It’s my bookshop too!”

Lewis looked positively mortified, but Jamie just laughed it off.

As the night wore on, the karaoke ended to be replaced by a DJ who seemed intent on playing every festive song ever recorded by any artist, living or dead. Amanda suddenly squealed. “Oh my god, I love this song!” She grabbed Lewis’ hand. “Come and dance with me!”

“Leave him alone, why don’t you?” interrupted Geoffrey. “I’ll dance with you.”

Amanda was mildly appeased and, having planted a kiss on Lewis’ cheek, followed Geoffrey onto the dance floor. She could dance, admittedly, although Geoffrey looked a bit like a flailing sturgeon. What he lacked in ability, he made up for with enthusiasm, however, and he was soon dancing in the centre of a circle of cheering dancers.

“Girlfriend,” asked Jamie lightly, once he and Lewis were alone at the table.

“God, no!” replied Jamie before both of them laughed. “Come on,” he said impulsively.” Let’s go!”

What about your friends?”

“They’ll… understand,” said Lewis (hoping that they would, in fact, understand) as he stood up to put on his coat.

“I’m not sure she will,” said Jamie, nodding in Amanda’s direction.

“Oh, sod her,” said Lewis uncharacteristically and, in a bold move, he grabbed Jamie’s hand. He caught a brief glimpse of the expression on Amanda’s face as he did so. (Dawning recognition.)

Once outside in the cold winter air, Jamie started to laugh (and his was an especially infectious laugh.) Lewis noticed that they were still holding hands but he felt disinclined to point this out.

“So,” said Jamie amiably. “Your place or mine?”

Lewis simply stared.

“Or that late-night coffee shop,” said Jamie, pointing at the establishment across the road.

“My place,” Lewis blurted out.

“Really?” Jamie fixed his large grey eyes on Lewis.

Lewis nodded, squeezing Jamie’s hand tightly once before letting go and walking purposefully in the direction of his flat.

Once inside, Jamie inspected Lewis’ rather eclectic music collection, taking in the cello that stood propped up by the window. Lewis went into the tiny kitchen and uncorked a bottle of red wine. He poured out two glasses and made his way back to the living room where Jamie had just taken the liberty of putting on Jeff Buckley’s Grace. He put on the third track before turning towards Lewis.

Carefully, Jamie took the glasses from Lewis’ hands and placed them on the mantelpiece. Lewis was dimly aware that Jamie hadn’t used coasters but rational thought swiftly left him when Jamie’s lips met his.

 

Kiss me

Please kiss me

Kiss me out of desire, baby, not consolation…*

 

Step closer, press closer, half-fall into the armchair. Wine, what wine?

Next to the bedroom and a haze of something incredible, something Lewis had never known before, not to such intensity and not with such emotion.

 

 

Later, Lewis supposed that he remained bereft of rational thought from that moment until a month later. Not that he greatly cared at the time, of course. It was strange how his priorities changed.

 

 

The following morning was a tragicomedy of epic proportions, as far as Lewis was concerned.

“You brought him home last night, didn’t you?” demanded Geoffrey.

Lewis decided to play the ‘innocent’ card. “Who?”

“Your mystery man who had us all enraptured until you dragged him off!”

“As I recall,” said Lewis grumpily, “you were rather busy with Amanda. Anyway, why do you think I brought him home? Not all of us are as fast and smooth as you.”

Geoffrey cleared his throat in the manner of a barrister. “Allow me to present Exhibit A.” He indicated the mantelpiece. “Two glasses of wine, albeit untouched. No coasters underneath them. This is not normal for you, Lewis, old chap. You must have been distracted.”

“Proves nothing,” said Lewis. “Maybe I was thirsty.”

“Whatever you say,” said Geoffrey dismissively. “How about we move on to Exhibit B?” He walked over to the sound systems and pressed the eject button. “Jeff Buckley’s Grace, a classically seductive, if somewhat suicidal, album.”

“That’s rather bad taste, “objected Lewis lamely.

“Lover, you should have come over?” read Geoffrey from the CD. “I think it says something.” He then smiled smugly. “In any case, Exhibit C should dispel all doubt.” Triumphantly, he held up a black jacket. Jamie’s jacket, in fact.

Lewis was grasping at straws by now. “Doesn’t mean he was here! Maybe I borrowed it.”

“Despite having your own coat? I think not.” Geoffrey tilted his head to the side.

“What are you…?” began Lewis.

“Hush,” said Geoffrey. “I think we have a new exhibit if Your Honour will allow it to be brought forward.”

At that moment, the bathroom door opened and Jamie padded barefoot and towel-clad into Lewis’ bedroom.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning,” replied Geoffrey before turning to Lewis. “Exhibit D. I rest my case.”

 

 

Even embarrassment like that could be endured. Jamie, towel-clad Jamie was in his room. Hell, Jamie was in his life, wasn’t he?

 

 

For the first time in a week, Lewis attended a seminar and, what was more, he was early.

So was Amanda.

After a moment’s hesitation, Lewis sat down next to her.

“Hi.”

Amanda replied airily. “Oh, hey Lewis, how are you?”

“I’m well,” he replied carefully. “And you?”

“Good, good.” She turned her face away.

“Are you sure?”

She mumbled something under her breath.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Lewis stayed silent for a moment. “is this because I’m… you know?”

“Gay, Lewis, you’re gay!”

Abruptly, Lewis stood up, put on his coat and walked out of the seminar room.

Jamie was waiting outside (as Lewis half-suspected he would be.)

 

 

November crawled by. Wasn’t that strange? thought Lewis. Wasn’t time supposed to fly when you were having fun? Yet every day with Jamie felt like an incredible eternity. He felt as though he had never known anyone so well.

Lewis supposed that was the difference now. If he did things differently, it was because of Jamie. Not that Jamie ever actively encouraged him in any direction (indeed, he was more prone to distracting him than anything else) but Jamie was there and he was with Lewis and that was encouragement enough.

 

 

Lewis sat at the end of the bed, a sheet wrapped around his waist and his laptop balanced on his knee. He was supposed to be finishing the first draft of an essay due the following week but he was finding it rather difficult to concentrate.

The reason for his impaired concentration was, of course, Jamie, who was lying on the bed, resting his foot on Lewis' shoulder while perusing a programme from the Royal Haymarket Theatre.

Lewis could not stop looking at him.

"Write," said Jamie.

"I can't," said Lewis, mesmerised. "You're distracting me."

Jamie was the very picture of innocence. "How? I'm being quiet, just like you asked."

Lewis smiled. "It's just you being here. I can't quite believe it."

Jamie sat up and moved to settle behind Lewis. He wrapped his arms around Lewis' waist and rested his chin on his shoulder, looking at the computer screen.

"Write," he whispered into Lewis' ear.

Lewis closed the lid of his laptop. "Later."

 

 

All good things come to an end… this too will past… the pessimistic corner of Lewis’ mind which could be easily ignored, always maintained that had he not woken up that one night to the strains of cello music, Jamie might still be his. It was his own fault that Jamie left. Lewis should never have questioned him. The early hours of the morning before going to New York for a particularly dissolute stag party were no time to be questioning their relationship.

 

 

Lewis knew he was losing his grip on Jamie on the night he woke up to the sound of a cello being played; his cello. Jamie was sitting in the corner of the living room. The moonlight bathed his body in silver and he was playing some unknown tune on Lewis’ cello, haunting and melancholy.

“I thought you didn’t know how to play,” said Lewis. He didn’t mean to sound accusatory but the words came out that way anyway.

Jamie stopped and looked up. He shrugged, carefully placing the cello to the side. “I’ve watched you often enough,” he said nonchalantly. “I’ve heard it being played.”

Lewis looked flabbergasted. “You can’t just pick up an instrument and play it! It’s not done.”

Jamie shrugged again. “I’m sorry.”

With a sigh, Lewis shook his head. “No, don’t be. It’s just me being foolish. Come back to bed?” he asked as he yawned widely.

With a sigh, Jamie stood up. “I’m sorry if I woke you. You really need your sleep. What time’s your flight in the morning?”

“Have to be at Heathrow at seven,” said Lewis as he extended his hand towards Jamie. It seemed that Jamie hesitated in taking it but maybe he was just imagining it. Really, it was more than likely that he was imagining it. He was just being paranoid.

They went back to bed and made love, quietly, because Geoffrey had complained about the noise they made. He had done so jokingly but the embarrassment of being heard had been enough for Lewis to beg Jamie to be quieter. Jamie had laughed, saying that Lewis was the one who made all the noise, but he had nevertheless complied.

Now that it came to it, Lewis could not sleep. Even as they lay there, breathless after their exertions, his mind was filled with the strange melody Jamie had been playing.

Lewis turned slightly on the bed and touched Jamie’s chest. “What was the piece you were playing on my cello earlier?” he asked softly.

Jamie was silent for so long that Lewis wondered if he had fallen asleep. It wouldn’t have been the first time that Jamie had slept with his eyes open.

“Something my cousin wrote,” he whispered at last. “About the downfall of a people.”

“Your family is musical?” asked Lewis before he could stop himself.

Jamie shifted a little uncomfortably. “He was. My cousin, I mean. I played the harp a little when I was younger. One of my other cousins, actually the eldest son of the family, used to like listening to me play.”

“What happened to him?”

“Excuse me?” asked Jamie a little sharply.

“I’m sorry,” mumbled Lewis. “It’s just… the way you talked about your other cousin. Used to. It makes it seem like something must have happened to him.”

Jamie sighed. “Yes. He suffered greatly. He used to tell me that my music saved his life. Sometimes I wonder if I simply prolonged the agony of his existence. He…” Jamie paused for a moment and swallowed with apparent difficulty. “He was very dear to me.”

Lewis was silent. “Were you in love with him?” he asked tentatively.

Again, Jamie was in no hurry to answer. “I probably still am,” he said eventually. “Although seasons and generations seem to have passed since I last saw him.”

Ignoring the pain, disguising his hurt with careful breathing, Lewis asked in a nonchalant tone. “He must have been quite incredible.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Jamie.

“For you to have been in love with him,” replied Lewis.

“He wouldn’t have thought so.”

“Did he not love you back?” asked Lewis.

“Oh, he did. Most passionately. I thought I was the centre of his world but I was wrong. We separated, went our different ways and all I am left with are memories and regrets.”

“I do not regret it,” said Lewis suddenly, emphatically. “Because now you are in my life.” He began to kiss Jamie’s face, soft lips passing over smooth skin. Frantic heartbeats passed before Jamie at last began to return his kisses.

Again, they made love; again, Lewis’ cries were stifled in Jamie’s black hair.

“Tell me about him.”

Jamie carefully stroked Lewis’ hair. “I would not know where to begin,” he whispered.

“What did he look like?”

“The rising sun, setting fire to the sky. A warning beacon. A destructive fire,” said Jamie. “He had auburn hair, full and thick. It fell to his waist. He was tall. Taller than I am. His eyes were grey as mine. We inherited our eye colour from our grandfather, our only mutual forebear.”

“You must have been young,” remarked Lewis.

“Ay, we were. Too young to know what love was but not too young to be unaffected by it.”

Jamie paused.

“He was beautiful,” he said softly. “And he was mine.”

“Do you miss him?” asked Lewis, enthralled in the morbid way of those who know that time is drawing to a close.

“With every breath, I miss him more and more.”

Lewis did not know how to respond to that. How do you respond when someone has effectively ripped out your heart and thrown it against the far wall of the room. Oh, yes, goodnight should do it. “I really should sleep now. Early start tomorrow.”

Jamie simply nodded before kissing Lewis’ forehead. “Yes, get some rest.”

Of course, Lewis didn’t sleep. Jamie knew it, he must have.

 

 

The flight to New York was endured with glass after glass of champagne. Actually, most of the stag weekend was endured using such a technique. It was one of those events in life where Lewis just had to wonder when he had fucked up so badly that the entire world conspired to shit on him.

 

 

“I wouldn’t do that,” the barmaid said conversationally as she overfilled Lewis’ and Geoffrey’s glasses with some brightly coloured sticky cocktail (the choice of the bridegroom-to-be).

“What?” asked Lewis, entirely bewilded.

“I wouldn’t stare at him.” The woman jerked her head back, indicating a stranger at the corner of the bar.

“I wasn’t st…” began Lewis but the barmaid had already turned away.

He found his gaze drawn towards the stranger. If he hadn’t been staring before, now he couldn’t stop himself.

Not that there was much to see, of course. The stranger wore a hooded sweatshirt, concealing most of his face except for his chin and mouth. He had been chain-smoking since Lewis and the rest of the stag party had arrived. Lewis wasn’t even sure why they had come here. It hadn’t been his choice, he knew that much. Subterranean fleapits in New York City did not conjure especially fond feelings within him. He would rather be back in Oxford, talking to Jamie, trying to figure out what was going wrong. (Somewhere between Last Goodbye and Lover, You Should Have Come Over, he thought.)

Suddenly Geoffrey bellowed in his ear. “I have to find the little boys’ room! I may be some time!”

Lewis rolled his eyes good-naturedly and sipped his drink. After about ten minutes, he felt someone brush against his back and sit down next to him.

“You weren’t all that long,” Lewis started to say before he trailed off.

The stranger was sitting next to him, a cigarette hanging between his lips. His hood was now down, revealing a head of thick copper hair, tied in a tangled knot at the base of his neck.

Lewis was dumbstruck. This man was, to put it bluntly, beautiful. Despite the scars on his face; despite his old and shabby clothes. Though it seemed blasphemous to think it, this stranger was more beautiful than Jamie. He possessed the very same ethereal air but was more restless, like a caged animal, brute strength restrained against its will.

He even had the same wild grey eyes as Jamie…

Lewis’ mouth went dry.

“One of the elendilí, perhaps,” the stranger muttered to himself.

“Who are you?” asked Lewis, burning curiosity overcoming apprehension.

“I have many names,” said the stranger diffidently as he lit one cigarette from the butt of another. “I get Rusty a lot here.” He twisted in his seat, facing Lewis and fixing him with an unsettling gaze. “You know the fat whore who took your money on the way in?”

Lewis nodded, too fixated by those eyes to do anything else except to vaguely wonder at the stranger’s accent, a strange mix of Northern Irish and mid-Atlantic.

“She calls me Maddy,” explained the stranger, his nostrils flaring slightly. “I get Red, Nell, Mike and, for some unknown reason, the fat whore’s son calls me Bill.” He looked at Lewis intently. “Does any of that ring a bell?”

“Wh-what?” stuttered Lewis, shocked into speaking.

“You kept watching me. I assumed you knew me,” said the stranger.

“I… I don’t,” said Lewis. “You just…”

“Yes?”

Lewis mumbled so quietly that it seemed impossible that the stranger should hear him, though he did, of course. “You just look like someone I know.”

The stranger tensed slightly before inexplicably summoning a barman, who proceeded to pour out two shots of vodka into grubby glasses. Lewis watched the transaction with a kind of horrified fascination.

The stranger was missing his right hand.

He pushed one of the glasses towards Lewis.

“Drink up,” he said. “It might loosen your tongue.”

He raised an eyebrow when he realised that Lewis’ gaze was drawn towards his right arm but, other than that, he seem unconcerned by anything much.

He downed his shot.

“Who do you know?” he asked immediately. “No, you won’t know their real name. How do I remind you of this person?”

Lewis’ eyes were watering from the vodka, cheap Russian stuff from the taste of it. “Eyes,” he gasped. “Same eyes.”

The stranger froze. “Scion of Finwë,” he murmured. “Describe him,” he demanded.

“I… I don’t know how… He is unlike anyone I have ever known. I…”

“Hair colour, perhaps?” asked the stranger condescendingly. “I am not, you will find, asking for an in-depth description of his character.”

“Oh,” said Lewis in mute tones. “Black.”

“Not Finarfinian. Right. How tall is he?”

“Not as tall as you. But taller than me.”

“Not Turgon,” muttered the stranger. “Does he have a scarred hand?”

“No.”

“Not Cáno. Does he have ruddy cheeks?”

“No.”

“Not Moryo.” The stranger looked up, his eyes looking darker and wilder than before. “Does he make you feel like you’re the centre of his world?”

Lewis was stunned and could only nod his head.

“Findekáno,” whispered the stranger. “No more.”

He stood up abruptly, knocking his barstool over. Lewis could only watch s the stranger pushed his way through the crowds, heedless of the cries of protest.

He paused at the door and pulled up his hood before disappearing into the night.

Geoffrey was sympathetic when Lewis told him his suspicions. And then they had another round of drinks.

 

 

After returning to England from the stag party, Lewis went straight to his family home. Family mansion, really. Lewis Jeremy Knightley, eldest son of Lord Knightley. One of those things that seem unnecessary to admit in Oxford. It was no fun being the son of a peer; life was a seething mass of expectations. So he just forgot about it until theoccasion called for it.

 

 

Christmas dinner was never going to be enjoyable.

Sitting between Mad Aunt June and his sister who was clinically insane. Strange that the only two children of the family should be so reprehensible.

Strange that Lewis realised he had had enough.

The spat with Jamie (which Jamie hadn’t even noticed) was just that: an inconsequential spat. He shouldn’t be here making nice with relatives he couldn’t stand and who couldn’t stand him.

Wiping his lips with his napkin, Lewis stood up. His father glared and shouted and his mother shrieked about ingratitude.

Then was the summary disowning. (Well, that took care of the son of a peer part rather nicely.)

He kissed his sister’s forehead. She was in one of her catatonic states and had just stared at the turkey and potatoes and ridiculous paper hats. She may have blinked when Jamie said goodbye.

He got in his car and drove back to Oxford. Blissful empty motorway, listening to Jeff Buckley.

 

 

And I never stepped

- on - the - cracks - 'cause

- I - thought - I'd - hurt - my - mother

... And I couldn't awake from the nightmare

That sucked me in and pulled me under

Pulled me under

Oh... That was so real

I love you

But I'm afraid to love you

I love you

But I'm afraid to love you...*

 

 

Geoffrey was right, mused Lewis. The music is suicidally seductive. He parked his car. Realised that the only clothes he had were at home. Or rather, his former home. Probably on the fire by now. He shrugged. He didn’t care.

He. Didn’t. Care.

He unlocked the door of his flat, half-hoping that Jamie would be there. There was a note instead.

L

Have gone to Dublin for the holiday weekend. A cousin of mine is a professor of music there. Will ring you when I get back.

J

Crushing, vice-like disappointment but Lewis figured he’d survive. What were a few days, really, in the grand scheme of things?

 

 

What were a few days? On Death Row, they are all you have left. In the cancer ward, they are all you have left.

 

 

Lewis never wanted to tell Jamie about meeting that red-haired stranger in New York. It would be the death-knell, nail in the coffin, all those morbid things that meant The End.

He told him about being disowned instead. About throwing away everything for Jamie.

They talked late into the night. The morning was grey and dreary when Jamie finally left.

Lewis got the impression that Jamie knew about the stranger though. For fuck’s sake! he thought angrily. It wasn’t as though he had cheated on Jamie!

He wouldn’t tell him. He would not.

He should have told Geoffrey not to tell him but it slipped his mind. What a lark! He forgot to warn the least discreet person in England to keep a secret.

There really was no fuss when Jamie left. There was no shouting. There were no tears. There were barely any recriminations. Jamie almost thanked Lewis for being a stop-gap in his life. Lewis almost said you’re welcome.

 

 

This is our last embrace,

must I dream and always see your face?*

Why can't we overcome this wall

Baby, maybe it is just because I didn't know you at all.*

 

 

He got drunk the night after Jamie left. He got drunk and played his cello. What better way to pass the time when Rome burned?

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Chapter End Notes

*Lyrics from Jeff Buckley’s Album Grace. Everyone should own it. Everyone.