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Chapter Text

Murphy’s Law

 ***

Inspiration

What am I supposed to do without you?

Is it too late to pick the pieces up?

Too soon to let them go?

Do you feel damaged just like I do?

Your face, it makes my body ache

It won't leave me alone

And this feels like drowning

Trouble sleeping

Restless dreaming

You're in my head

Always, always

I just got scared

Away, away

I'd rather choke on my bad decisions

Than just carry them to my grave

You're in my head

Always, always, always

Cracks won't fix and the scars won't fade away

I guess I should get used to this

The left side of my bed's an empty space

I remember we were strangers

So tell me what's the difference

Between then and now

Always - Gavin James

***

1.

never thought something so beautiful count haunt you

Car horns honk at a crossroads in the far distance, and a stinging mixture of petrol and smoke burns on his face as he rounds the corner into King’s Road. After trying unsuccessfully to blink the smog away, Collins rubs over his eyes. It doesn’t seem to do any good, because they begin to water anyway. His lungs are aching as if he’s already inhaled the emissions of an entire car factory in the five minutes since stepping off the tube. 

Some things never change. He still hates London.

Only for a little while had he been good at pretending that he didn’t.

While he crosses the street, Collins sees in the corner of his vision that Farrier is already at their agreed meeting spot: next to the red letterbox in front of the flower shop. 

As is his typical, casual way, Farrier is half perched on the bonnet of his car with crossed arms. Unlike Collins, he does not seem to carry an overnight bag, though perhaps he'd simply put it in the boot already. Collins can make out a transparent plastic bag on a hanger in the backseat of the car through one of the squeaky-clean windows. It must contain Farrier’s dinner suit.

Farrier himself is wearing his signature brown leather jacket that’s a tad too big for him, as well as a pair of simple black jeans. Despite obvious attempts at being tamed with hair gel, Farrier’s hazel hair is slightly ruffled and sticks up at the back. In one of Farrier's hands, the obligatory cigarette is tucked between two fingers. 

Collins snorts quietly to himself. He has always been convinced that Farrier both dresses and acts as if he owns a motorcycle. He doesn’t, but nobody would believe it when they first saw the man. He just has that aura about him. The numerous tattoos on his arms and shoulders only reinforce it. 

By now, Collins has reached the pavement on the other side of the street. He sidesteps a petite teenage girl whose eyes are glued to her phone screen and approaches the parked car in front of the flower shop, feeling a tension rise inside him that would be more appropriate for the way to his own execution.

Meanwhile, Farrier brings the fag up to his lips and scratches his clean-shaven chin. The other hand he raises in greeting as soon as he finally makes out Collins in the crowd of passers-by.

Collins tries to ignore the way his heart stutters when they first lock eyes.

Still grey-blue, then. And the man himself … still bloody gorgeous.

What did you expect?

As soon as he’s reached Farrier’s car, he slows his body to a stop. 

How is he supposed to act here?

Hug Farrier? (Out of the question.)

Shake hands? (It’s too formal somehow, like they’ve taken ten steps back.)

Which they have.

Farrier shifts his weight from one foot to the other (a sign giving away his own discomfort, maybe?) but doesn’t break eye contact. Collins’s gaze catches on the scar just below Farrier’s chin. It’s a new one. 

‘Hi, Jack.’ 

Hearing his voice makes everything real. Collins has to avert his eyes and lets them drift over the shop window behind Farrier’s head instead. With a loud thump, he drops his bag onto the pavement.

‘Tom.’

‘I’m glad you called.’ Farrier takes a long drag from his cigarette. ‘I’ve missed you.’

The words make Collins’s eyes flit back to him, this time in disbelief.

‘This has nothing to do with us.’ Better to make that crystal clear from the beginning. ‘I just need a lift.’

Farrier doesn’t reply, just keeps staring at him in his usual intense way that makes Collins feel uncomfortable every time.

Well. If he’s being honest, uncomfortable might not be the right word for it. That look makes him feel seen . Something feels particularly unsettling about that sensation.

‘You look good,’ Farrier adds what feels like minutes later.

Collins shoots him a dark glare. ‘Shut up.’

For the first time, Farrier seems affected by the harshness of his tone. He gives a terse nod and rubs his neck with the back of his hand.

‘I see. That’s how it’s going to be?’

‘I never promised anything else,’ Collins reminds him.

‘Still haven’t learned how to drive, I take it?’

Annoyance flares up inside him. ‘I know how to drive. I just don’t see the point of owning a car in London. It’s a waste of money and it’s bad for the environment. Besides, nobody in possession of their sanity drives in London.’

‘I do,’ Farrier says.

‘Well, that doesn’t count, ‘cause you’re mental,’ Collins mutters under his breath – and a sharp pang of guilt jolts through him right away. He hopes Farrier hasn’t heard him.

It seems not, because he flicks his cigarette away and says, ‘All right. Let’s get going, shall we? It’s a long drive and I’d rather get out of the city before rush hour.’

Collins nods once. Before he can protest, Farrier has already picked his bag up from the ground and shoved it in the backseat of his car below his dinner suit. 

In the back of his mind, Collins registers that the car is a new one – one of those BMW sports editions only obnoxious rich people drive.

Too easy to forget sometimes that that’s exactly what Farrier is.

Collins shrugs his summer jacket off and folds it into a neat square, then sets it on top of his bag. After sliding into the passenger’s seat next to Farrier, he scrunches up his nose: The interior of the car smells brand-new, synthetic. It’s the kind of car where you would expect to find a woman’s sunglasses or lipstick in the glovebox – or a thong – but when he opens it, the only thing he finds is a car maintenance manual and a crumpled copy of The Economist .

Which is so Farrier’s style that he almost laughs out loud.

Once done with his quick scan of the perimeter, he dares throw a glance over to the driver’s seat. Farrier is watching him with blatant amusement, but wisely chooses not to comment.

‘Please tell me you didn’t buy this car just for the occasion.’

Farrier lets out a mellow laugh at that, and some of Collins’s tension melts away against his will. 

‘I’m not that rich, Collins.’

He’s lying. Collins remembers seeing the six-figure number on the title deed of Farrier’s Kensington flat once. He’d been to Mrs Farrier’s ancestral townhouse too, a couple of times, so he knows it has more than six bedrooms. Four years ago, Farrier had even invited him to join him in going to his family’s summer estate up in Kent while they were on leave. It has a bloody golf course .

Therefore, he decides not to dignify Farrier’s statement with a reply and stares out of the windscreen instead. 

Farrier sighs and reverses out of his parking space. When he turns around to check the rear window, his left hand lands on the back of Collins’s headrest. It’s far too close for Collins’s liking.

To distract himself, he stares holes into the dashboard of the car, which looks like the inside of a spaceship. Collins doesn’t even want to imagine how expensive this car was.

It’s one of the things that has always stood between them, Farrier’s wealth.

Not that you could call Collins’s family poor, exactly – no, they’re middle-class, maybe even upper-middle-class. They may not own an estate with a golf course, but what they do have is a healthy, inherent scepticism towards the rich. Farrier is, without a doubt, a member of that latter category.

It’s the United Kingdom. No matter what anyone says, class still looms large. Even in modern times like these.

‘Can I open a window?’ Collins asks, feeling passive aggressive all of a sudden. ‘The air is toxic in here.’

In his periphery, he can see Farrier smirk. ‘Suit yourself.’

Contrary to his words, the first thing Collins does is adjust the seat to give his legs more room – he’s a tall guy and the current adjustment seems more suited for a woman than a man, though his mind doesn’t want to linger on that thought for too long. 

Next, he fidgets with the button to open his window and regrets it immediately when a motorcycle stops next to them at a traffic light: its exhaust gases stream inside the car. Now the air is even more unbreathable.

Alas, Collins can’t very well close the window again without losing face.

He is stubborn like that.

Despite Farrier’s precautions, they don’t manage to avoid rush-hour traffic altogether, so it takes them more than an hour to get out of London. They don’t talk much. From time to time glancing at the built-in GPS on his dashboard, Farrier asks him a couple of questions. Like, what is Collins’s sister up to (she’s good, five months pregnant with her second child), how is work (Collins is working primarily remote at the moment and hates it, but he refrains from telling Farrier that) and does he still live in Battersea (he doesn’t, having moved to Woking a couple of months ago to get away from the city).

Collins doesn’t ask any questions in return. He is already informed about everything Farrier has been up to in the last years, whether he wants it or not, because his sister keeps sending him screenshots of Hawkins’s – one of Farrier’s best mates – Instagram profile. It’s not a secret that the two of them spent two weeks in July in Ibiza on a Yacht with hot girls in bikinis and a bunch of snobby rich blokes they know from Eton.

Collins still has a hard time believing he ever dated a guy who went to Eton .

Another thing the screenshots have told him is that Farrier doesn’t seem to be in a relationship right now. That is, if his Facebook profile can be believed. Which it probably can’t be, since Farrier hasn’t updated it in over two years. The last picture he’d posted – and which is, infuriatingly, still up – is one of the two of them, at Collins’s sister’s wedding two and a half years ago.

They were on cloud nine at the time, happier than ever, and it shows in the photo despite them not even facing each other. It was taken late at night outside in the garden of the venue, after all the dancing and the cake and the speeches. Collins had stayed sober throughout the whole thing, taking being best man very seriously, while Farrier had become a bit tipsy by the end. Considering how many shots he’d downed that night, even that had been an impressive feat. Collins has to admit that, for an average-height bloke, Farrier can hold his drink quite well.

The picture is little more than a snapshot – neither Collins nor Farrier had known they were being photographed. Its background is dark, with only the lights of Chinese lanterns and fairy lights illuminating their cheeks and casting a warm glow to one side of their faces. Farrier is sitting on the ground, in the grass, and one of his palms is placed on Collins’s knee. Seated on a white garden chair next to him, Collins has his fingers buried in the short hair on the back of Farrier’s neck. Both of them are gazing up to the night sky.

The photo had captured a serene moment, peaceful. They’d each been sleepy, lost in thought, but together .

It is still painful to think about it. Recalling how lucky he’d felt then.

To get rid of those thoughts, Collins gets his phone out and sends a quick text to his mum to tell her that they are on their way. It only takes thirty seconds for her to respond.

We ? is all the message says.

Grumpy now, Collins tucks his phone back into the back pocket of his jeans without replying.

This was a stupid idea. Eight hours in a car with Farrier. What on earth had possessed him to make that phone call last Friday?

Sure, he’d been a bit drunk at the time. But that is no excuse.

When he’d informed his sister of this arrangement on a video call yesterday, her eyes had turned rounder than the lights of a U-boat.

‘Sorry, what?’ she’d said. ‘I must have misheard you. I thought for a second you’d said you were driving up here with Thomas.’

She is the only person Collins knows who calls Farrier ‘Thomas’. Well, apart from his own mother. Everyone else, Collins included, prefers either ‘Farrier’ or a simple ‘Tom’.

‘I am,’ he told her, defensive. ‘It’s not a big deal. He’s driving anyway and I need a lift.’

‘What’s wrong with, y’know, trains?’

‘It’s too hot. It’d be so stuffy and oppressive on a train. You know how much I hate them.’

‘Of course I know, I just thought you hated him more.’

‘I do.’

‘So, where is this coming from?’ She squinted, suspicious. ‘You’re not back together, are you?’

‘No! Jesus. I just said I hated him, didn’t I?’

‘Yet not enough to take a train.’

‘Yeah, well.’ Just thinking about the hours he would have to spend confined on a train was enough to give him anxiety. He’d had another panic attack on the tube last month. He wasn’t eager to experience that again anytime soon.

‘Just saying.’ She’d grinned at him. ‘You could have called Alex. I’m sure he would have been happy to take you.’

Collins remembers that moment while trees rush past his window in blurry green lines and he’s listening to Farrier’s gentle breathing next to him. How downright logical that proposal had sounded, yet how perplexed he’d been by it.

Yeah, why hadn’t he? His sister was right: Alex would have been a perfect choice. He was invited, he owned a car, he loved driving. Plus, the other man lived in Guildford these days, so his route would have taken him right past Woking anyway.

As if having a sixth sense of what Collins is thinking, Farrier picks this moment to ask, ‘Why did you call me?’

That yanks Collins out of his thoughts. ‘What?’

‘You could have asked Alex to give you a lift.’

Can he read minds now too?

‘I did,’ Collins lies. ‘He said he couldn’t do it.’

Farrier raises his brow. ‘Why not?’

‘Seems he has business up in Leeds. Recruiting.’ He makes a mental note to remember to tell Alex about this hastily made-up excuse before Farrier gets a chance to talk to him. ‘So he’s already halfway there. He told me he wouldn’t mind driving back down to come pick me up, but I refused. Didn’t seem very eco-friendly.’

Farrier hums. Collins gets the strong feeling that he doesn’t believe him.

‘I figured you’d drive anyway.’ Why is he still talking about this? The more he’s trying to defend himself, the more suspicious it’ll get. ‘You never gave much of a shit about the environment.’

‘That’s not true. I’m donating a—’

‘Oh, right, yeah. I forgot. You’re donating a hundred quid every month to Greenpeace.’ Collins grimaces. ‘Doesn’t matter, though, does it, how much you’re donating , when your company is one of the main culprits responsible for destroying the planet.’

‘This again.’ Farrier runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. ‘We’re going to be in this car for hours, Jack. Let’s try not to fight for once, okay?’

‘Fine.’ Disgruntled, Collins turns to his window.

‘And it’s the WWF.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I’m donating to WWF,’ Farrier corrects. ‘Not Greenpeace.’

‘Oh.’ Collins’s mind can’t come up with a reply. Back in his student days when he’d still had more free time, he used to volunteer at WWF. Does Farrier remember Collins telling him that?

Improbable. In all likelihood, he’d just found a leaflet in this letterbox one day and decided it couldn’t hurt to donate, in a weak attempt to silence his guilty conscience. What’s a few hundred quid to someone as rich as Farrier, anyway?

‘So, what are you going to wear tomorrow?’ Farrier asks, his voice penetrating the awkward wall of silence that has built up between them once more.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Don’t tell me you’ve got a fancy dinner suit stuffed into that little overnight bag of yours.’ Farrier has the audacity to wink at him. ‘I’d have to kill you.’

Against Collins’s will, the edges of his lips pull upwards. ‘I still don’t even own a dinner suit.’

‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Farrier’s eyes are warm and for a moment it feels like it used to between them, effortless, warm, comfortable. ‘Hence the question.’

‘Ewan is lending me one of his, since we’re the same height. He’s bringing it to the house tomorrow.’

An emotion crosses Farrier’s face, and he turns back to watch the road. ‘Ewan? You still talk to him a lot?’

‘Aye, of course I do. He's my best mate. He’s a great guy.’

Farrier mumbles something that sounds a lot like ‘Is he?’ to Collins’s ears.

‘What’s wrong with Ewan?’ he inquires. ‘You never much liked him, now that I come to think of it. What has he ever done to you?’

Farrier’s knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. ‘Never mind.’         

Collins raises a brow but decides to let the topic go.

‘You could have asked me,’ Farrier says then. ‘You could have borrowed one of mine.’

The idea is so absurd that Collins has to snort. ‘Yeah, right. And look like an overgrown child at a confirmation. Remember Manchester, when my luggage was stolen? That was the last time I was wearing your clothes. Never again. You’re still several inches shorter than me, mate. Your suits don’t fit me.’

The fact that Collins is taller than Farrier isn’t the only reason Farrier’s suits don’t fit him – Farrier also happens to be a lot more muscular than him. He’s one of those blokes who have to run to the gym for two hours every morning before they can even think about eating a protein-laden breakfast. 

Christ, Farrier has an eight -pack – or at least he did at the time they were dating. Whenever Collins remembers that, he tries to convince himself that it’s ridiculous and unnecessary – which is something he used to teasingly tell Farrier all the time back then – but in truth he’s always found it sexy. And still does. Even now. Even after everything.

For fuck’s sake. Stop thinking about Farrier’s abs .

‘I still have the one that does,’ Farrier adds in a quiet voice, ripping Collins out of his thoughts again. ‘The navy one.’

Collins’s mouth turns dry. Farrier had bought him that suit for his sister’s wedding without permission, ignoring all of his protests. He’d only agreed to wear it once Farrier had promised to return it after the wedding. It would seem he hadn’t kept that promise. 

The navy suit fits Collins like a glove, better than any other he’s ever owned. Farrier always said that it makes his eyes look even bluer than they already are.

It’s the suit he’d worn when the picture was taken.

Speaking of …

‘That picture is still up.’

‘What picture?’ Farrier frowns at the road.

‘Our picture. On your Facebook.’

‘Oh right. I forgot to delete it. Sorry. Sort of haven’t logged into Facebook for ages.’

Aye. Yes, always, forever . That’s what the caption says, in the style of a Scots glossary. Every time Collins looks at that post – which only happens when he’s very, very drunk – he hates Farrier a little more. How can one say (write, technically) something so beautiful, so poetic, and not mean it? How can one make a promise like that, only to break it again just a couple of months later?

It only serves as further proof that Farrier is an enigma, and always has been. It seems they’ve never understood one another the way Collins had believed.

They’ve just left Nottingham’s outer circle behind when it starts to rain. At first it’s only a few tiny droplets, but they soon turn into bigger ones that splash against the roof of the car. Not that Collins minds a bit of rain (hell, he’s from Scotland) but he’s prone to feeling anxious on the motorway when it’s pouring.

The good news is that Farrier is both a good driver and as used to rainy conditions as Collins is, being English. Though it’s hard to forget while looking at his tan that he’s got a lot more sun than Collins this summer.

During the whole Ibiza Yacht-thing, probably.

Now that the thought is on the forefront of his mind, Collins can’t stop picturing Farrier on the deck of a boat, stretched out on a sunlounger, wearing a rolled-up, open-necked white shirt and beige shorts. With dark sunglasses pushed into his hair and a colourful drink in his hand. A similarly tanned, platinum-haired girl writhing on his lap. 

Or two. Or three.

That’s at least the impression of Farrier’s holiday Collins got from those screenshots off Hawkins’s Instagram.

‘Had fun in Ibiza?’ The question slips out before he can stop himself, and his tone sounds gruff even to his own ears.

Farrier glances over in plain surprise. ‘How’d you know I was there?’

Damn it. He’d backed himself into a corner. He can’t very well tell Farrier that his sister is stalking him on social media on his behalf. Collins himself had unfollowed Farrier a few days after their break-up. He doesn’t spend much time on Instagram in the first place, only uses it every once in a while to post the odd picture of a castle or a museum he’d been to, but he still doesn’t want Farrier to see what he is doing. 

‘Alex told me.’ Poor Alex. Collins apologises telepathically to the absent man for spinning him into his web of lies. Now he definitely won’t get out of texting Alex a warning before they reach Edinburgh. ‘Not that I wanted to know.’

‘Ah,’ Farrier makes, and it comes out sounding altogether too indifferent. ‘It was pretty good, yeah. Lots of sun. Swimming. Drinking. You know how it is.’

Collins doesn’t, because he’s never been to Ibiza. Nor does he plan to go. It’s not his type of vacation. That’s another thing he and Farrier could never see eye to eye on – where to spend their holidays.

Farrier prefers the beach, sizzling under a blazing sun, far-away countries, different cultures. When they’d first met in the Air Force six years ago, Farrier had just returned from a prolonged round-trip in Peru – during which he’d even hiked all the way up to Machu Picchu by himself.

Whereas Collins likes home ; he would spend all of his time in nature if he could. Inhaling fresh mountain air or dipping his toes in icy lakes. Travel around Scotland to visit old castles, go to museums.

‘What about you? Where did you go?’ Farrier asks.

‘Nowhere. I had to work all summer.’ It’s a lie – he did go on vacation – but he doesn’t owe Farrier a damn thing.

‘That’s a shame.’ 

Again, Farrier doesn’t sound like he believes him. 

Again, he chooses not to pry.

As they drive on, the rain gets heavier and the sight worse. Farrier slows the car, which Collins is grateful for. It’s not that he doesn’t like speed – he’s still a fighter pilot at heart. By contrast, though, he also happens to be a cautious person. If they can be avoided, he refuses to take unnecessary risks. Out of the two of them, Farrier had always been the more reckless one during their time in the RAF, despite being Collins’s superior.

‘Loosen up, Collins,’ he’d told him once, after Collins had reprimanded him for a dangerous stunt he’d pulled in the air. ‘I’m a big boy. I know what I’m doing.’

‘So.’ Present-time-Farrier clears his throat. Collins turns, only to find the other’s eyes resting on him. ‘Sod it. I’m just going to ask. Are you seeing someone?’

For five whole seconds, Collins is rendered speechless.

The nerve of that man! As if that was any of his business! As if he hadn’t forfeited any rights to ask!

‘Aye, I am, actually,’ he hisses then and turns away again. If he makes the mistake of looking at Farrier while saying it, Farrier will know he’s lying. He always could read him like a book.

Still, he half expects Farrier to call him out on his lie. To his surprise, Farrier says nothing whilst trying to process this new piece of information.

Then he asks, ‘Who? Do I know him?’

Ewan’s name is on the tip of Collins’s tongue for a split second for some reason, but he swallows it down. Claiming Ewan as his boyfriend would be far too complicated – the other man is going to be at the wedding tomorrow. Meaning, Collins would have to pretend to be in a relationship with him over the weekend. Yes, Ewan likes him – they have been best mates since primary school – but that would still be a bit much to ask of him.

‘Nah.’ Collins pulls at the collar of his shirt. ‘One of my colleagues. His name’s Robert.’

The ironic thing is that Collins is pretty sure Robert – who is an actual colleague of his – does indeed have a crush on him. At any rate, he keeps giving Collins those meaningful looks when no one else is around. So far, Collins has ignored them every time. Robert’s eye colour (brown) is all wrong. So is his physique (too thin) and his hair colour (dirty blond).

He’s just not Collins’s type. 

Not that he has a type. He absolutely doesn’t.

‘Okay.’ Farrier stares straight ahead. ‘Good for you.’ He seems to test the words on his tongue, and not liking the sound of them.

Now the obvious question is burning on Collins’s own tongue. It would be so easy. Just three simple words. Three words and he’d know.

What about you?

He doesn’t ask. The lack of knowledge eats him up inside, but he only presses his lips together and says nothing.

‘Shit,’ Farrier murmurs all of a sudden, which prompts Collins to follow his gaze through the windscreen of the car.

All he can see ahead are red lights – the backlights of other cars going in the same direction, all slowing down. There appears to be a traffic jam ahead, but the rain and fog are so heavy now that it’s impossible to see farther than a yard. When they reach the end of the tailback, which isn’t moving forward an inch, Farrier stops the car, turns off the engine, and flicks the radio on. Within a minute, they are informed that there has been an accident involving five vehicles and a lorry a few miles ahead, presumed to either have been caused by poor visibility or aquaplaning. The radio announcer states in a sombre tone that the motorway has been closed off and waiting vehicles are asked to form an emergency corridor for the ambulance and rescue forces.

Not for the first time today, Collins regrets not taking the train.

 *

It is three hours later, and they’re finally moving again. Wind and rain are still battering the car from all sides, and it looks like a full-blown thunderstorm is brewing on the horizon.

They’d spent most of their waiting time in silence, only once in a while making the odd comment on the weather. Collins had at least been somewhat productive – catching up on the latest two episodes of his favourite history podcast on his phone – while Farrier had stared out of his window in silence the whole time. 

Collins removes his earphones when Farrier accelerates and notices for the first time today that the skin under Farrier’s eyes looks dark and sagging.

‘Are you okay?’ he breaks the silence, which causes Farrier’s chin to dart upwards in surprise. ‘You look tired.’

The sun has gone down by now. The lights of other vehicles swish past their car windows. They may have left the metropolitan areas of the mid-country far behind, but they’re also nowhere near Edinburgh yet.

‘I’m fine,’ Farrier says and undermines his words immediately by yawning.

‘Are you sure? I don’t think you should keep driving.’

Farrier hesitates for a second too long, then says, ‘Maybe we could put in a quick stop at a petrol station. I just need a cup of coffee and I’ll be fine. It’s been a long day.’

‘Do you have any idea how dangerous drowsy driving is?’ Collins’s dormant temper flares up again. ‘According to some studies, as much as ten per cent of all accidents are caused by—’

‘Spare me the stats, please,’ Farrier groans. ‘It’ll be fine.’

‘Forgive me if I don’t want to stake my life on you claiming you’re “fine”,’ Collins shoots back. ‘We’re more than three hours out. If you’re too tired to keep going, you’d better tell me right now.’

‘Why? What are you going to do? Take over? Drive us the rest of the way?’

‘Why the hell not?’ 

Sure, he hasn’t been much behind the wheel of a car since he’d first got his licence, ten – Christ, has it really been that long? – years ago. But he’s pretty sure he still knows how to drive. 

Plus, it can’t be too hard; Farrier’s car, an automatic, appears to be practically driving itself anyway.

‘Because even if I did trust you with my car, you’re at least as sleepy as I am, if not more. You’ve been yawning constantly for the past hour.’

Collins blinks. Now that Farrier mentions it … the other man may have a point. He does indeed feel rather worn out. He’d spent all day at work, Fridays being the rare days of the week he still has to physically show up at the office. Then, right after work, he’d hopped straight on the tube to Chelsea to meet Farrier. He hadn’t even eaten dinner.

‘Fine,’ he hisses, ‘seems we’re both too knackered to keep driving in this miserable weather. What do you suggest? That we stop somewhere and sleep in the back of the car?’

Farrier sighs. ‘Maybe we should find a hotel for the night.’

Collins’s throat is constricting. A hotel? The two of them? 

Together?

Before he can stop himself, he’s spluttered these thoughts out like a blushing virgin.

Farrier’s reply is a weary chuckle. ‘I didn’t say anything about sharing a room. But if that’s what you want—’

‘No!’ Collins barks. ‘No, that’s not what I—’

‘Relax, Jack. I’m teasing.’

‘Well, don’t . Nothing has changed. I’ve only asked you for a simple favour. It doesn’t mean a thing.’

‘I’m aware of that.’ Farrier clears his throat. ‘And you have that boyfriend.’

The boyfriend. Fuck. Collins is almost sure Farrier knows it’s not true. He is a terrible liar.

‘Exactly,’ he still says, with emphasis. ‘So whatever you think this is—’

‘Oh, don’t worry.’ Farrier’s voice is dripping with bitterness now, but he still indicates and leaves the motorway. ‘No reason to get your knickers in a twist; I’m not going to sneak into your bed while you’re sleeping. You’ve made it perfectly clear what you think of me.’

‘Don’t you dare blame this on me. You’re the one who left.’

‘That I did.’ Farrier’s voice sounds about a million years old. And so, so tired.

They keep driving in silence for a while. Outside the car windows, a rural area rushes past, and Collins is just beginning to think they’ll never find a place to stay at for the night, when Farrier exclaims, ‘There!’ and points ahead.

It may not be a five-star hotel – on the contrary, it’s a cheap Travelodge that looks like one of those motels Collins only knows from American movies – but Collins would take anything right now to get away from Farrier. Besides, it’s not like he’s picky. He’s slept in worse places than this. He bets Farrier hasn’t, though, and that smug thought makes everything a lot more bearable somehow.

To Collins’s inner amusement, Farrier does indeed look rather sceptical while he pulls into the car park, which is already packed with vehicles. Too late, Collins remembers that the Edinburgh Fringe is happening this weekend, too – the city is likely to be crowded. It’s obvious that they are not the only ones on their way north tonight.

A sign outside tells them there are rooms available, so they enter the small lobby through a revolving door.

Behind the reception, a middle-aged man with thick glasses raises his head up from his phone. ‘Good evening.’

It’s long past evening , but Collins bites his tongue instead of pointing that out.

‘Hi.’ Farrier walks over and casually rests his elbows atop the reception desk. The man has a natural talent for giving off the impression that he’s trying to flirt somebody’s pants off. Collins knows it’s unintentional, but it still pisses him off for some reason.

‘I don’t suppose you happen to have two available rooms for us tonight?’

‘Let me check,’ Reception Guy replies in a thick Scottish accent that makes Collins feel right at home although they’re not even across the border yet, and starts hammering on his keyboard. ‘With the Fringe going on in Embra right now, I can’t make any promises, I’m afraid. We’re almost fully booked. But I’ll see what I can do for you.’

By the looks of it, Farrier has also forgotten about the Fringe – his forehead crinkles in confusion. Likely to check if Collins had known, Farrier throws a side glance at him. Collins makes an effort to pretend to be focused on Reception Guy’s typing.

‘Ah – sorry, gentlemen. Tomorrow night we have a few openings, but—’

‘Tomorrow night doesn’t help us,’ Farrier interrupts. ‘We need two rooms tonight.’

Collins rolls his eyes because how does Farrier always manage to sound so damn English ? So entitled. It’s exactly the tone you’d expect from a bloke who went to Eton – and Cambridge too – and plays Cricket on Sundays with his posh friends. The kind of bloke who’d joined the RAF because it is a family tradition and, along those same lines, also has a family tree dating back to the early 12th century hanging in the hallway of his flat.

Granted, that may not have been Farrier’s own idea but his mother’s, and he only put it up because it was a birthday present from her, but still .

‘I’ve only got one room, lads, sorry. One double bed.’ Reception Guy gives them the stereotypical, pitying look of heterosexual men. ‘You can draw straws.’

For fuck’s sake. Someone in a high place must hate Collins. What did he ever do to deserve this?

A part of him is about to say no – no way is he going to sleep in the same room as Farrier tonight, he’d rather sleep in the stupid car – when the ear-shattering sound of thunder rumbles outside.

Farrier throws him a pregnant look. ‘What do you think?’

It’s not like they have much of a choice.

‘ Fine .’ Collins is pissed off that he has to be the one to make the decision, the one to say it out loud. ‘We’ll take the bloody room.’

‘I would offer you an extra bed or an airbed, but I’m afraid we’re out of those, too,’ Reception Guy offers unhelpfully.

Collins has never before felt a stronger desire to punch someone in the face.

‘What about another bed-set?’ Farrier asks. ‘Or do we have to share that as well?’

Reception Guy tries to shake his head and shrug at the same time. ‘Sorry, mate.’

In his head, Collins is already putting together the livid one-star Google review he’s going to leave the Travelodge in the morning. His phone is almost dead, though. To make matters even worse, he also forgot to bring his charger, which he only notices after they’re inside the room and he’s unzipped his overnight bag. Most of the things he needs are at his parents’ house anyway. Which is where he, too, would have spent the night, all snuggled up in his cosy childhood room, were he not forced to be in a crappy budget hotel room with his ex-boyfriend at the arse-end of North-East England instead.

Which reminds him that he should probably call his parents. Or at the very least send them a message, seeing as they’re not likely to be awake at this hour.

Just as he’s about to hit ‘send’, his phone finally gives up the ghost.

‘Fuck.’ 

Someone really does hate him.

Farrier, on the far side of the room and leaning over his own fancy trolley case, looks up. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘My phone just died.’

Farrier straightens and crosses the room to hand Collins his own. ‘Take mine.’

Collins is about to thank him when he remembers he has no idea what his parents’ mobile phone numbers are. He pushes the device back into Farrier’s hands. ‘Doesn’t matter. Don’t know their numbers.’

‘You don’t know your own family’s phone numbers?’

‘I do know their landline number, obviously. But who memorises mobile numbers these days? That’s what smartphones are for.’

‘I do,’ Farrier says. ‘I remember mobile numbers.’

‘Really? Prove it.’ 

It’s so bloody stupid, but Collins is so deadbeat that he’s practically delirious at this point. Or he must be, because why else would he challenge Farrier about something as daft as mobile phone numbers?

With a shrug, Farrier recites a random sequence of digits and Collins raises a brow. ‘You just made that up, didn’t you? If I called that number—’

‘You’d be waking my mum.’ Farrier looks amused by that thought. ‘So please don’t, right now. She’d be furious.’

‘So that doesn’t prove anything.’

‘Doesn’t it?’

‘No. That could have been anyone’s number. Or nobody’s. How would I be able to tell?’

Farrier sighs and recounts a different phone number.

All Collins can do for seconds afterwards is gape at him. His head suddenly feels like it has been slammed into a wall.

What the hell?

‘What?’ Farrier asks innocently. ‘Did I get it wrong?’

He didn’t. That’s not why Collins is so shocked.

He is shocked because it’s his phone number.

Two years. Two fucking years since they broke up, and Farrier still has his phone number memorised? What on earth does that mean?

Farrier’s smirk disappears, and he looks flustered now, like he’s regretting ever bringing up the subject. He takes one step forward.

‘Jack—’

‘I need a shower,’ Collins interrupts quickly. Farrier’s look has grown far too intense for his liking again. It’s that same look from earlier. Like he’s stripping him naked in all the ways human beings are able to. Like he sees him, truly, all of him.

He can’t deal with any of this right now.

Before fleeing into the bathroom, he manages to grab his bag. Then he slams the door shut behind him. He swears he can hear Farrier sigh on the other side as he rests his cheek against the cold wood.

This is going to be a long night.

*

After he has showered and brushed his teeth, Collins re-enters the room in his boxer shorts and a clean T-Shirt. At home he prefers to sleep topless – which Farrier knows – but there is no way he’s going to, tonight. Not with Farrier so close by.

While he stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, he remembers they haven’t drawn straws yet and he has no idea who’ll get the bed.

It should be Farrier anyway. He is the older one, so a night on the floor will likely do more damage to his back.

But Farrier isn’t in the room when Collins goes to sit on the bed, and for a second he has the irrational thought that Farrier has left him here alone, at this crappy hotel in the middle of the fucking night, just to get one over on him.

That unfounded fear, however, is quelled a moment later when the door opens and Farrier walks in, carrying two plastic bottles from a vending machine in his hands. Without looking, he throws one at Collins, who catches it with a quick reflex and glances down at the label. It’s apple juice, his favourite. He’s always disliked the taste of pure, unmixed water. Which is something Farrier also knows.

Damn him.

‘Thanks,’ Collins mumbles. In moments like these, it’s hard not to feel like a dick.

Farrier waves off. ‘No worries.’ He crosses the room to where Collins is sitting on the side of the bed and drops another item into his lap.

‘What’s this?’ 

It’s a stupid question because it’s obvious what it is: a phone charger. For Android phones.

‘Where did you get this?’

‘At the reception. Since you’re clearly still refusing to get yourself a proper phone …’

‘iPhones are not proper phones,’ Collins says automatically. It’s almost like an instinct at this point, talking back to Farrier. ‘Besides, Apple is stealing all your data and selling it to the highest bidder, you know that, right?’

‘Oh and you think whatever no-name Chinese brand made yours is so different, do you?’

Touché.

Not in the mood to admit defeat, Collins pretends to ignore Farrier while he plugs both ends of the charger into the socket and his phone. As soon as it switches on, he sends that text, letting his mother know that he won’t be making it home tonight, but will hopefully get there by noon tomorrow.

Her last text – We ? – remains unanswered.

Afterwards, he also messages Alex to inform him of his little white lies.

When he looks up again, he finds that Farrier has left him alone in order to get ready in the bathroom. From the sounds of it, he must be in the shower right now.

Inhaling a deep breath, Collins puts his phone down and takes a moment to listen to his surroundings.

The walls are thin. So thin, in fact, that his ears can make out the loud snores of one of their room neighbours. A couple is arguing in the hallway. Another seems to be having kinky sex on the floor above them. 

Collins huffs. It’s such a cliché, people coming to cheap hotels to have sex, but in this instance it seems to be true.

Then, his attention drifts back to the sounds of water hitting the glass walls of the shower cabinet in their own bathroom.

Without his consent, Collins’s mind provides him with a fantasy of what Farrier looks like in the shower. No, not a fantasy – he’s remembering. His brain doesn’t know how to create from nothing. It’s drawing from memories.

Collins knows only too well what it’s like to be fucked against a glass shower like this and how good it can feel. Maybe not here, but in other hotels. Other places too. Farrier’s flat. Their bathroom at the RAF base. The risk only serves to make it more thrilling.

God. Collins lets out a low groan and pulls the pillow up to his head to bury his face in it. He needs to get laid. There has only been one person since Farrier, a one-time thing only, and they’d both been so drunk that he hardly remembers it. Nearly six months ago, now. Maybe he should actually consider giving Robert a chance and go out with him, see where it leads.

As Collins pictures being on a date with him, Robert’s brown eyes turn blue, and his soft but weak gaze intense.

Why did I have to call him?

‘Why did you ask me to give you a lift?’

Collins nearly jumps out of his skin and drops the pillow. The door to the bathroom stands ajar now, and Farrier’s elbows are propped up against the frame in that casual way that’s so like him. 

Of course that obnoxious bastard didn’t bother to put a shirt on – he’d only slung a towel around his waist. Which means that Collins is forced to stare at his bare chest.

Farrier’s still ripped.

And he’s got a new tattoo.

It’s a WWII Supermarine Spitfire, just above his collarbone. Collins knows his aeroplanes. He also knows Farrier’s body .

‘What?’ he stammers. He’s sort of forgotten the question.

‘If you hate me so much.’ Farrier’s expression is composed, but Collins knows him too well. For once, he can see what’s behind the façade. ‘Why did you call me?’

‘I don’t know.’ Collins says honestly. He finally tears his eyes up from Farrier’s naked chest. ‘I was piss drunk.’

‘I noticed.’

‘I guess it’s because I didn’t want to take the train.’

‘Why not?’ Farrier pushes himself off the doorframe and goes to stand on the other side of the bed.

Collins hesitates. It feels too personal, telling Farrier this. He’s never talked to anybody about it, other than his immediate family and his therapist. Yet he can’t stop the words. ‘I have panic attacks sometimes. On trains. The tube. Crowded places, in general. Whenever I feel I can’t get out of a situation. When I feel trapped.’

Farrier’s face gives nothing away. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.’

‘You couldn’t have. It’s a recent thing.’

‘Are you seeing someone about them?’

‘Yeah. It helps. Knowing I’m not dying or anything.’

‘Good. That’s good.’ Farrier inhales a rattling breath. ‘I don’t sleep too well either these days, to tell you the truth. Thought you should know, since you’re about to share a room with me for the first time in years. The nightmares … they can be unsettling.’

‘Is that because—’ Collins starts and Farrier nods.

‘I guess so. Has managed to fuck us up good, hasn’t it?’

Collins rubs his neck. ‘I was never cut out for it. I realise that now.’

‘That’s not true!’ The passion in Farrier’s voice surprises them both. Collins blinks. ‘You were a great pilot, Jack. You still are.’

‘That’s not what I meant. Skill wasn’t the problem.’

For a split second, Collins thinks Farrier is about to extend his hand, breach the distance between them. Then the muscle in Farrier’s shoulder relaxes again. His hand stays where it is. His expression turns soft.

‘It’s not a shame to have feelings.’

‘Well, sometimes I wish I didn’t,’ Collins spits. He’s never wished for that more than at his moment. His heart is pounding, and it’s all because of Farrier. All because of a bloody look .

Oh god. This is not over for him. Maybe it never has been.

It’s a tragedy that Farrier didn’t seem to agree, back in the day.

‘You don’t mean that,’ Farrier whispers. Clearly, he can feel it too – whatever this is.

‘Why did you leave? Why did you go where you knew I couldn’t follow?’ That exact same thought had been scorched into Collins’s soul over the past two years. He needs to have an answer but is afraid of getting one all the same.

‘You know why.’

Suddenly it clicks. This has to be about the tattoo. It’s about the Spitfire. It’s about … ‘Ah. Please tell me this isn’t about the grandfather.’

Farrier doesn’t reply. Which is as good a reply as any.

‘You do realise that we all have them? The ancestors who’ve fought in the wars? I mean, who in this sodding country doesn’t? But that doesn’t make other people run around playing the hero. My grandpa served in the RAF too, remember?’

‘I couldn’t live with myself if I gave less than him,’ Farrier says, like that answers it all. And, knowing Farrier, it sort of does.

You have done enough , Collins thinks.

Instead he says, ‘You don’t owe him anything.’

‘You’re wrong. All of us, we all owe him – and the other few – everything. “For your tomorrow, we gave our today”, rings a bell?’

Collins groans. Sometimes talking to Farrier can be so damn frustrating.

Family, duty, honour. It’s like the man walked straight out of a bloody Game of Thrones episode.

He tells Farrier as much, and the other man chuckles.

‘Fair enough.’

For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then, Farrier asks, ‘Why did you lie?’

‘What?’ Collins can feel the blood rush back to his face. In moments like this, he truly hates his pale complexion.

‘About the boyfriend. And about the Alex thing.’

‘I wasn’t lying—’

‘I went to the pub with Alex last night. He told me he hasn’t spoken to you in a month.’

Shit .

‘Well, I didn’t want you to think my asking you for a favour had anything to do with us,’ Collins hurries to say. ‘With me wanting to see you, I mean,’

‘Didn’t you?’ Farrier walks around the bed. Instinctively, Collins rises to his feet. The next moment, Farrier is standing in front of him, right up in his face. Warmth from his naked chest seeps into Collins’s pores, into his very being. ‘Don’t you?’

‘No,’ Collins says, breathless. ‘I don’t want to see you.’

His true meaning is , I don’t want you to see me .

But Farrier does. He always has.

‘I still love you, Jack.’ Farrier continues to take him apart with eyes and words. ‘I never stopped.’

That is rich, coming from him.

‘I have a boyfriend,’ Collins tries, in a desperate attempt to stop Farrier from wanting this. In an equally desperate attempt to stop himself from wanting it too, he adds, ‘You’re too late.’

‘Where is he then, your man? Why aren’t you taking him to the wedding?’

‘Why aren’t you taking one of the Ibiza-girls?’ Collins shoots back. ‘Or are they only for the summer? Do you have a different set of them at home? More presentable ones for your mother? Actually, scratch that. I know for a fact that you do.’

Farrier flinches back. ‘That’s not fair.’

‘Well, I never said I was. In case you don’t remember … my family used to love you. They knew all about us. Coming out to my dad when I was twenty-one was a fucking pain in the arse for me too. But he got over it eventually. At least I wasn’t a coward.’

‘It’s not that simple. My family … my mum's different. You know that.’

‘Family, duty, honour.’ Now he just sounds bitter.

‘I’ve always envied you for that.’ Farrier sighs. ‘Your family sticks together. You all support each other. All mine cares about is their money and legacy.’

‘And so do you.’

‘That’s not true.’ Farrier steps forward again and brings a hand up to the back of Collins’s neck. ‘I have always cared about you. Think I give a shit about the money? Do you really think that low of me? But anyways, things are different now. My mother knows.’

That is the last thing he’d expected to hear. Paired with the sensation of Farrier’s touch, it makes Collins’s breath stutter. ‘She does?’

‘I was a mess after we broke up. Of course she knew. She’s never said anything to me about it, but she knows. Someone must have told her about the picture too. She hates it, of course, but I don’t give a fuck anymore.’

‘She hates me , you mean.’

‘No. Not you. Only that you’re a bloke. She used to adore you before she knew. After she’d first met you, she told me how handsome and polite you were, did I ever tell you that?’ Farrier strokes a thumb over the side of Collins’s face. ‘She’s wrong about that. You’re a little shit.’ His grin turns into a smile, and he adds hoarsely, ‘And you’re not handsome. You’re beautiful.’

The gesture and his words make Collins’s hands tremble at his sides. How does Farrier always seem to know the right thing to say? Exactly the words that are sure to make Collins’s resolve crumble?

Farrier’s eyes drill into him and it is impossible to look away, to reply, to think straight.

I still love you .

The sentence reverberates in his head, over and over. He wants nothing more than for it to be true. If he’s honest, he has waited to hear those words for a long, long time. Maybe that’s why he’d called Farrier last week. Maybe that’s why he still can’t stop thinking about him, no matter how much time has passed.

While all those thoughts are rushing through Collins’s mind, Farrier leans in and tilts his jaw down to meet him. Collins lets him, feeling powerless against the sudden force of his own desire. Their lips brush together, only the ghost of a touch.

A sharp pain rips through Collins’s chest, where his heart used to be. He pulls back like he’s been hit by an electric shock.

Farrier’s eyes fly open again too.

‘What is it?’ he says, sounding as breathless as Collins feels. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I can’t do this.’ Collins is already turning around. He can’t even look at Farrier right now. If he looks at him – it’ll be all over. If he looks back, he’ll be lost. ‘I’ve fought too hard to pick myself back up after you left. I can’t do it again.’

‘Jack—’ Farrier’s hand lands on his shoulder and Collins flinches.

‘Just leave me be!’

The hand disappears. ‘I’m sorry.’

God , why did I have to call him?

Sometimes Collins truly hates his drunk self.

Chapter Text

2.

meet me where all wrongs turn to right

‘Be a dear and fetch me another beer on your way back inside, will ya?’

Vowing to ignore that already too-drunken request, Farrier grins and gives Tommy the finger while he fishes his phone out of his pocket. On the way to the door, he has to squeeze through a group of hooting business suits watching a football match on the wall-mounted flat screen above the bar.

Before he reaches the exit, he finally brings down his eyes to glance at his phone screen. 

And freezes. The smug grin dies on his lips. He’d expected a moaning phone call from his best friend Liz, who is in Manchester on a tedious work event tonight, but it’s not her.

What the—

There is no Caller ID, but Farrier would recognise that number anywhere. In the past, he’d typed it into his phone from memory too many times to count. Out of sheer necessity during the past year because Liz had deleted it from his contacts last New Year’s Eve.

‘Let me put you out of your misery,’ she’d said before making a grab for his phone. ‘Tom’s top New Year’s resolution: stop drunk-dialling Jack.’

Drunk as he also was that night, he hadn’t been fast enough to stop her – before he could manage to hoist himself to his feet to get his phone back, she’d already locked herself in the bathroom with it. A few minutes later, she came out again and handed it back with a pitying look on her face.

‘It’s for your own good,’ she said. ‘Trust me on this. I’ve unfollowed him too. That way you won’t be tempted to stalk him. His profile is private.’

Farrier hadn’t spoken to her for two whole days after that debacle. Childish, yes, but sue him; he had been livid.

All that drama for nothing: he’d never actually drunk-dialled Collins.

Well, he had – but then had never been brave enough to press the green button to connect the call.

Little did Liz know that Collins’s phone number was ingrained in his memory anyway.

Out of his depth, Farrier stares down at that very number now, displayed in bright white letters on his phone screen. Only when he pushes the door to the street open and a cool breeze hits his face does he finally regain some semblance of composure. He presses down on his touchscreen with a shaky, sweaty thumb and holds his iPhone up to his ear.

‘Thomas Farrier, who’s speaking?’

Jesus Christ. Who answers their mobile so formally? He can practically see Collins rolling his eyes on the other end. Back when they were together, Collins used to laugh at him all the time for being so bloody English.

Perhaps he’d had a point.

There is nothing but silence on the other end of the line. Farrier crosses the street to get some distance between him and the noise of the pub and turns the volume button up. ‘Hello?’

Did Collins butt-dial him?

Is that what this is?

Disappointment rushes through him.

Still, as he gives it a bit more thought, Farrier is able to see an upside even to this scenario. Even if Collins didn’t call him intentionally, the fact that he’s calling at all must mean that he still has Farrier’s number saved in his phone. That alone is more than he would have expected from a man who had unfollowed all of Farrier’s social media profiles only two days after their breakup.

Since he doesn’t want Collins having to pay for a phone call he potentially didn’t even instigate (during their relationship, Collins was still stubbornly refusing to get himself an unlimited plan) Farrier is about to disconnect the call, when suddenly …

‘Eh – hi. Farrier.’

He almost wheezes, like an imbecile. It takes him three rattled inhales to recover from the shock of hearing that voice. ‘Jack?’

‘Aye, it’s me.’ Collins sounds very unsure and very drunk, all in those three words.

‘What’s up?’ Farrier manages and wants to bite his tongue off the next second.

What’s up? That’s the best he can do? After everything?

‘So, I was wondering,’ Collins begins, slurring his words, ‘you have a car, right?’

A car?

‘Eh … yes, I do. Why—’

‘And you’re invited?’

Invited? Farrier’s own mildly intoxicated brain struggles to make a connection between those two questions. It takes a couple more seconds, but then it dawns on him.

‘You’re talking about Murphy’s wedding?’ He scratches his neck. His cheeks feel hot, despite the fresh evening breeze that hangs in the air. ‘Yeah. Yeah, he’s invited me.’

‘Good, good.’ Collins inhales. It sounds like he’s smoking.

A hopeful, though potentially delusional thought creeps to the forefront of Farrier’s mind. Is Collins about to ask him out?

‘Are you going?’ he asks, heart pulsing in his throat.

‘Aye, I am,’ Collins slurs into his ear. ‘At least planning to, but I need a lift. Are you by any chance driving up there? Wedding’s in Embra. He’s got that Scottish lassie, remember?’

Farrier’s heart is divided on the question of how to react to that new piece of information. On one side is clear, stinging disappointment – Collins is only calling because he needs something from him.

Then there is the other side – Collins needs something from him! Out of all the people he could have called, he had chosen to call him. That has to mean something, right?

Plus, Farrier could think of worse scenarios than having to spend eight hours in close proximity to the man he’s still hopelessly, irretrievably in love with.

‘Sure, yeah.’ He clears his throat. ‘I’m driving. I can take you.’

‘Wicked,’ Collins replies like he’s thirteen years old. Farrier’s mouth twists into a grin. Which is immediately wiped off his face again when Collins adds, ‘Cheers, mate.’

The connection is cut off.

Farrier has to stand in the dark street for fifteen minutes until his heartbeat has slowed to a healthy pace.

You’re welcome, mate, is his last, bitter thought before he re-enters the pub.

 *

It’s torture. And he knows what he’s talking about in that regard.

Farrier doesn’t believe in God. He is not a religious man. All he’s saying is if purgatory did exist, he’s pretty sure it would feel a lot like this.

In the end, he had taken the bed because Collins insisted. Not that Farrier had given in easily. On the contrary; they’d argued about it for ten whole minutes. Both of them have always been stubborn, but Collins is on a different level. Farrier is convinced nobody could ever hope to win an argument against him. If only because Collins would be so frustrated and pissed off by the end of it that he’d wear that look on his face – his signature disgruntled pup look – and then the other person would have no choice but to give in after all.

What sort of monster could be heartless enough to try to win an argument against an angry Golden Retriever?

The thought makes Farrier smile. It only lasts for a heartbeat before he remembers what happened between them last night.

He’d finally said it.

I still love you.

How many times in the past year had he held his phone in his hand with Collins’s number already half-dialled on his display, to tell him that exact same thing? A hundred? More? Yet he’d never gone through with it.

Perhaps, deep down, he didn’t want to know the answer to that one, unbearable question.

Does he hate me?

The answer, however, is clearly not that simple, as Farrier’s had to find out within the last twelve hours.

A fraction of Collins does hate him; Farrier is under no illusion about that. He just tries to focus on the other part, which doesn’t. Things, after all, are never black or white. In most cases, there is a whole lot of grey space in between.

Collins draws in more faint breaths through his nose on the floor next to him, and another wave of desire hits Farrier full-on. His fingers curl into the bedsheet.

This is the torture part. Having him so close. Farrier could get up, take less than three steps, and touch.

He doesn’t, and he won’t, because he promised and it would be creepy, but the possibility alone is enough to make his body ache with anticipation. His entire being is consumed by it. It’s the most powerful longing he’s ever felt, and he’s sure he’s never experienced any other comparable sensation of that magnitude before either, not even back when he and Collins were in a relationship.

Yes, Farrier had wanted him then too – the main difference between then and now being that he’d had him. Three years ago, whenever he’d wanted to touch Collins, he could just ask.

Collins had always said ‘yes’, then.

This, right now, is different. Now Farrier wants what he can’t have.

Or rather, what he wants hasn’t changed – only the answer has.

It’s not just Collins’s body he wants. It’s all of him. The smiles. The laughter. The banter. The arguments. Even the panic attacks and the trauma that they both seem to struggle with now. The whole package. What a privilege that would be.

Good Lord. Is that how Farrier is going to try to win him back? With thoughts so soppy they could have been taken straight out of a bad romance novel? He’d have to consider himself lucky if Collins didn’t react with gagging noises to that approach.

Somewhere buried in his mind is the certainty that Collins loves him still, although he’s still too stubborn to admit it at this point in time. The way he’d stared at Farrier’s bare chest after he came out of the shower …

Last night, for a brief second, Collins had wanted this just as much as Farrier had.

All that’s standing in Farrier’s way is that one, fundamental truth that can’t be argued away: Collins’s final answer remains a big, fat ‘no’ at the moment.

Farrier has to respect that, even if it kills him.

Over the last hour, he’s given up on sleep. There is no way he can hope to sleep with the love of his life only a few feet away.

Which isn’t helping his overall situation, because chances are, Collins is not going to get into his car tomorrow when he finds out that Farrier didn’t get a wink of sleep.

When yesterday’s argument about that same topic comes to his mind, Farrier has to smile again.

Yes. Still so damn stubborn, Jack. He hasn’t changed one bit. Still quick to fight Farrier at every step of the way, challenging his every word. It should be exhausting, and perhaps it would be with anyone else, but with Collins, it’s more like a breath of fresh air. Collins makes him feel young. With him, Farrier feels like he has an equal, has found his match. Someone with more fire than him, passionate to a fault. In some ways, the two of them are from different worlds, while in others they are the same. Collins doesn’t realise this – or refuses to admit it – but Farrier has always known this to be true.

Christ, he craves another cigarette. He’d given up smoking two years ago; now he only indulges in the occasional societal fag when he’s at the pub with his mates or feeling on edge. Which he has been constantly, for the past week.   

Just as Farrier has half made up his mind to step outside for a smoke, Collins stirs and rolls to his other side on the floor, hugging the duvet close to his chest. It makes Farrier raise his head off the pillow and is enough to distract him from his nicotine craving.

In the dim light of the room, Farrier can only make out Collins’s vague silhouette, but he somehow instinctively knows that Collins is smiling in his sleep. He used to do that all the time when they were together. Farrier is certain he could never tire of watching him sleep; Collins looks remarkably like an angel when he’s dead to the world.

That, of course, is something Farrier could never actually tell him – he would never live that one down.

His lips are still burning from their kiss.

In the beginning, in the months following their breakup, he’d thought it would get easier. That is what everyone always says, right? It gets easier. One day you’ll be over him. You’ll find someone else. Plenty of other fish in the sea.

But there are no other fish. It’s Collins’s fault in the first place that Farrier had even realised it’s fish he wants, and not, let’s say … crabs.

Granted, perhaps that’s a women-insulting way of saying that Farrier used to be clueless that he could be anything other than perfectly straight before meeting Collins. And while women are still perfectly fine – but nothing more – and Farrier has never felt the desire to tumble into the sheets with any of the other men he knows, that moment of meeting Collins had still changed everything else for him, because … well, it’s Collins.

That’s Farrier’s sexuality. He still dislikes labels, but he knows this. Neither fish nor crabs do it for him now. Not even women and men, but only that one man.

Farrier wants no one else.

And that’s why it’s torture. 

Because if he so desired, Farrier could have women, and he could probably have some men too, but what he can’t have is Collins, and that’s the one person he wants.

Coming to that realisation after he’d returned from Syria last year had been almost mind-numbingly painful.

But, as Farrier tries to tell himself during the next hour of not-sleeping: all is not lost. He is still alive, and as long as he’s alive, and Collins is alive, and he gets to see him and be near him, there is a chance he can turn this around. This time, that much he’s already vowed to himself, Farrier’s going to do the thing he couldn’t do, last time around.

He’s going to fight his arse off.

He’s going to charm the pants off Collins over the course of this weekend. He’s going to try to get him back, his heart, his body, his trust, all of him. If he didn’t at least try, how could he live with himself?

All of that is going to start tomorrow.

 *

The first thing he thinks when he wakes is: I must have fallen asleep after all.

The second: Shit.

Only one second later he is sitting bolt upright. It takes another to throw back the covers. A third one and he’s scrambling out of the bed, knees hitting the floor.

The floor. Where Collins is sleeping. Restlessly.

That’s what has woken him: Collins is having a nightmare.

Fair hair shining in the yellow light from the streetlamp outside their window, Collins is kicking the duvet, groaning and rambling frantically in his sleep. His forehead feels sweaty and sticky when Farrier places his head there to hold him steady. His skin is burning up too, like he’s having a fever. Under closed lids, his eyes are twitching.

Ice runs through his veins with every distressed little sound Collins emits. In an attempt to wake him, Farrier shakes him by his shoulder firmly. With his other hand, he grabs his jaw so Collins doesn’t smash his own teeth out against the foot of the bed.     

‘Jack!’ Farrier gives him another hard shake. That’s when he realises that Collins’s face is wet. ‘Wake up!’

Suddenly, a sharp, splitting pain spreads through his shoulder and he lets go, cursing.

Did Collins just punch him?

Seems that he did, but he is also still asleep, still trapped in the throes of his nightmare. Farrier gives his shoulder a rub and lets out a grunt. He probably deserves this. He should be grateful Collins didn’t punch him in the face.

Trying a different approach next, Farrier murmurs gentle ‘Shh’s’ into Collins’s ear and gently runs light fingertips over his face, his arms, through his hair.

It works. Within a minute, Collins’s breathing has turned less erratic, and he’s stopped his kicking and trying to twist out of his own body.

Farrier feels a wave of guilt flood through him as he strokes a sweaty strand of golden hair out of Collins’s forehead. Hadn’t he promised only yesterday not to sneak into Collins’s bed while he was sleeping? His intentions may be pure – he is only trying to help – but does that matter when the final outcome is the same?

Therefore, after Collins has sucked in a few more deep breaths, Farrier tries to disentangle himself from the heap of their splayed limbs.

To his surprise, Collins’s hands clutch at his elbows when he attempts to pull back, holding him there. His head is almost lying in Farrier’s lap now. One of his cheeks rubs against Farrier’s leg and even that feathery touch feels burning hot against Farrier’s skin.

‘Tom,’ Collins mumbles, almost unintelligible.

Farrier’s heartbeat jumps into his throat.

Is he awake?

He counts down ten of Collins’s breaths, but the other man doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t move, just lies there enveloped in Farrier’s arms like he’s meant to be there, like he’d been so many times before. Only when he reaches ten does Farrier allow himself to relax – Collins must still be fast asleep.

Could he have misheard him? Human minds work in mysterious ways and sometimes people hear the things they want to hear. What was the name of the alleged boyfriend again? Robert? Well, maybe Collins hadn’t said ‘Tom’ after all. Maybe what he’d said was ‘Bob’.

Farrier may be ninety-nine per cent sure Collins was lying about the boyfriend, but the shadow of a doubt remains. How could it not? Collins is a gorgeous man, smart, funny, sociable, caring. Plus, he’s never been afraid of his sexuality the same way Farrier used to be – he’s openly gay. So why wouldn’t other men go after him? Collins is a ten, by anyone’s standards.

With a silent snort, Farrier rolls his eyes at himself. Liz is rubbing off on him, and not in a good way.

He makes one last attempt to return to the bed, but Collins is still not releasing his iron grip. Seems he’s not going anywhere tonight.

Surrendering, Farrier settles back against the side of the mattress in a more comfortable position and scratches his trimmed fingernails over Collins’s scalp, relishing the pleased sigh Collins lets out at that.

Neither of them gets to sleep in the bed that night after all.

 *

Fortunately, he wakes first. Orange sunlight is permeating through the thin grey curtains, informing him it’s morning. Farrier throws a quick glance at the cheap, ancient clock on the wall opposite him; not even eight a.m. yet. Now he’s not surprised anymore that Collins is still asleep – nothing and no one could ever rouse him from sleep before ten o’clock on a weekend.

Over the course of the night, Farrier must have somehow ended up fully horizontal on the floor because that’s the position he’s in now. Face-to-face with Collins, both of them rolled on their sides. Air from Collins’s nostrils brushes over his face with each exhalation. Their chests are almost touching  … but not quite.

So close. His heart lurches.

Fuck, how long has it been since he last woke up next to Collins like this? Far too long. Every morning since their breakup, without exception, Farrier has felt that loss.

Still, he knows Collins well enough to be sure he’ll be livid if he wakes and catches Farrier staring at him like a creep while he’s sleeping.

While painstakingly avoiding touching him, Farrier clambers to his feet – time to get dressed. Despite his mind’s best efforts to focus on other things, he can’t help but throw the occasional glance at his sleeping ex-boyfriend while he gets ready. Thankfully, he still manages to put his shirt on the right way around.

His brain feels scrambled, though, like it’s been through the wringer. He’s still exhausted. Unlike Collins, he’s unable to sleep in anymore. His circadian rhythm will always force him awake sooner rather than later, and never past half-eight. Farrier can’t even remember when that had started. At Cambridge? During his time in the Air Force? Has he always been an early riser?

Looking at his phone, he finds a missed call from his mother from an hour ago. Other people would likely be concerned by this, but Farrier’s mother has a tendency to call him before the sun is up. Like him, she also has trouble sleeping these days.

Although he knows it’s probably nothing, Farrier decides to call her back right away. He walks into the bathroom so as not to wake Collins and dials her number.

His mother answers after the first ring. ‘Thomas.’

‘Hey, Mum. Everything all right?’

‘I was wondering if you could stop by the house today.’ That’s his mother. Always straight to the point. ‘The bushes in the garden need trimming.’

‘I can’t. I told you. I have that wedding to go to. In Scotland.’

There is a short moment of silence on the other end. ‘Right,’ his mother says then. ‘You did indeed mention that. When is it?’

‘In the afternoon today. Ceremony starts at three.’

‘Whose wedding was it again?’

‘Murphy’s.’ Farrier scratches his chin. He’ll have to shave later because the skin there itches. ‘We served together.’

His mother draws in a sharp breath. ‘Murphy … is that the Scottish one you—’

‘No.’ His heart starts to pound inside his chest. ‘No, that’s … Collins.’

‘Ah.’ She clicks her tongue. ‘Collins, right. I remember him.’

Farrier doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing.

‘Is he invited too? It’s been a while since you last mentioned him.’

That’s because we broke up, Mum, Farrier wants to say. I left him because I was too afraid to tell you I was in love with a man.

‘Yeah. He’s invited.’

His mother’s stiff nod is almost audible through his phone.

‘Actually,’ Farrier adds, ‘we’re also driving up to Edinburgh together, Collins and I.’

The line is silent.

After an endless moment, his mother says coolly, ‘I’d thought that you and Isobel—’

‘No.’ Heat rushes into his cheeks. ‘No, Mum. Sorry, but that’s never going to happen.’

‘I see.’

Another moment passes. Farrier can’t stand it anymore. ‘I’m in love with him, Mum. And that’s—’

‘I don’t want to hear this right now,’ she cuts in. ‘I’ll ask Freddie to trim the bushes.’

Beep, beep, beep.

Farrier stares at his phone numbly for the next five minutes.

That went well.

 *

Farrier leaves the bathroom showered, shaved and with brushed teeth, and to his surprise finds Collins already awake and dressed. He doesn’t look up from his phone when Farrier enters.

‘Good morning,’ Farrier says. Collins hums in response, but his eyes remain glued to his screen.

‘Did you want breakfast?’

‘Aye, but we don’t have to have it here,’ Collins says. ‘It’s probably shitty anyway. We should get going. We can grab something on the way.’

Farrier frowns. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and he dislikes the idea of eating in his car while driving. Still, arguing with Collins would be a waste of time. ‘Fine.’

‘Are you done in the bathroom? I need to get ready.’

Farrier nods. Collins does too and throws his phone onto the bed next to Farrier’s before he gets up and disappears in the bathroom. All that’s left for Farrier to do is tidy up the room, so he gathers up the bedclothes from the floor and folds them. They smell of a mixture of his and Collins’s aftershaves, and the conspicuousness is making him wince. Does Collins know that he’s spent a good portion of the night in Farrier’s arms?

Not likely. Otherwise, he would have snapped at him about it already.

*

Half an hour later, they’re sitting in Farrier’s car once more. This time, Collins is the one in the driver’s seat.

‘Did you sleep at all last night?’ Collins had asked with a raised eyebrow after Farrier had put his trolley into the boot of his car. Farrier refrained from answering.

Wordlessly, Collins extended his hand.

Farrier still hesitated for a moment too long, because Collins snorted. ‘Oh come on. Have a little faith. I vow not to crash your precious car.’

‘Remind me, when was the last time you drove?’

‘I’m a fighter pilot, Tom. I’m sure I can handle an automatic car.’

With a sigh, Farrier had dropped the keys into his outstretched hand.

So here they are now, and while Farrier has to admit that Collins is a better driver than he’d expected, it is still strange to look over and watch him behind the wheel, checking mirrors and speed indicators. In all the time Farrier has known Collins, he has never once seen him drive a car. Wherever they’d gone, their designated driver had always been Farrier.

‘Tell me something: When we were together, did you only pretend to hate driving so you could be the one drinking?’ Farrier jokes as soon as they are on the motorway again and Collins starts to look a bit more at ease behind the wheel.

Collins throws him a quick side glare, but his lips twist into a grin. ‘Told you I knew how to drive.’

‘It feels strange, seeing someone else drive my car.’

‘Jealous?’ Collins strokes over the steering wheel seductively, like it’s the body of a lover.

Farrier’s throat feels rather dry all of a sudden.

He is, as a matter of fact. Of the steering wheel.

‘Maybe a bit,’ he mutters and turns away again. He can’t afford to get hard in the car next to Collins. Not while he’s wearing sweatpants that hide nothing.

They settle into a period of comfortable silence after that. Collins is one of those rare, odd people who don’t like to listen to the radio while on a road trip. The unfamiliarity of the near-silent atmosphere makes Farrier realise he’s never once driven this car without music since he bought it. Turns out the engine is as quiet as you’d expect from a car in this price range – they are gliding smoothly over the motorway, in perfect harmony with the concrete underneath and their surroundings. It’s almost as good as flying. 

‘Who did you talk to, earlier?’ Collins’s tone is casual, but Farrier’s eyes still flick over, alarmed by the question. ‘In the bathroom?’

Great. So he’d heard that.

And yet, what has Farrier got to lose? He decides to tell the truth. ‘My mother.’

‘Ah. How is she?’

‘Could be better. I told her I am going to the wedding with you.’

Collins’s head shoots around. Farrier winces, nails digging into his seat, but Collins’s hands fortunately remain firm on the wheel. ‘What? Why would you do that?’

‘Not as my date,’ Farrier backpedals. ‘Just that we were driving up there together.’

‘Oh.’ Collins turns to face the road again. ‘How did she react?’

‘She hung up on me.’

A few seconds pass during which Collins says nothing. Then, ‘Shit.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’m sorry.’ For once, Collins sounds like he means it. ‘This is my fault. I never should have rung you.’

Blinking, Farrier stares at him. He can’t believe his ears. How can he say that? How can he regret this, when Farrier feels like he is finally able to breathe for the first time in years? When it feels like his numb, dead heart has been restarted?

‘I’m glad you did.’ The words come out like another love confession, and he reminds himself he needs to turn it down a notch. ‘I told you she knew. Now at least it’s out in the open. Finally.’

‘Still. You deserve better. I wish she could see how—’ Flustered, Collins breaks off in the middle of the sentence and presses his lips shut.

‘“How” what? Jack?’

‘All I’m saying is, nobody deserves to be shunned because of who they love.’

What?

Farrier draws in a sharp breath and Collins’s eyes widen too. Quickly he adds, stammering, ‘Or are attracted to. Fancy. Want to fuck. Whatever.’

Farrier can’t bite back a low chuckle. ‘All of that,’ he then confirms gently and watches in amusement how Collins grinds his teeth together in embarrassment. ‘And more.’

‘You just don’t give up, do you?’

‘Never. Would you?’

Collins doesn’t reply, eyes glued to the road. His hands are clutching the steering wheel tightly, and Farrier decides it’s time to change subjects.

‘When was the last time you saw Murphy?’

‘Last month.’ Collins visibly relaxes, unclenching his jaw. ‘We went to the Isle of Skye together.’

‘Just you and him?’ Farrier hadn’t even realised the two of them were that close. In the back of his mind, he also registers that this means Collins must have lied yesterday, about staying at home all summer. The thought stings.

‘No, a group of us. Olivia, his fiancée, came along too. Calum and his wife. Brad. Ewan. A bunch of others you don’t know.’

Ewan.

Farrier already regrets asking. ‘Ah.’

‘It was fun. We were staying at this shitty B&B, but the old lady owning it was amazing. She told us stories about her five husbands, and we drank whiskey in front of the fireplace every night. She didn’t mind, though. Apparently, she had a pretty wild youth too.’ Collins is wearing a fond smile on his face as he’s remembering. The beauty of it makes Farrier’s heart overflow with desire and love for him.

‘Jesus. Five husbands?’ he jokes to distract himself. He can’t get carried away again. ‘She’s been busy.’

‘Yeah. Two of them died. The other three she divorced.’ Smoothly, Collins accelerates to overtake a lorry. He goes more than just a little over the speed limit while he does it, but Farrier doesn’t point that out. ‘She said the first one was the love of her life, though. He was one of the two who died.’

‘How did it happen?’

It was the wrong question to ask. Collins’s fingers tense up on the steering wheel again. For a terrifying moment, Farrier is worried he’s about to have a panic attack.

But Collins only sucks in a steadying breath. ‘He drowned.’

Drowned.

Well, that explains the reaction. Farrier is about to apologise, or switch subjects, or say anything, really, anything to make Collins feel comfortable again, but Collins goes on before he even gets the chance to open his mouth.

‘While he was trying to save a ten-year-old. She said the boy had jumped into a river to get his football back and got caught by the current. Her husband went after him. They both died.’

Farrier feels sick. ‘Jesus.’

‘Yeah,’ Collins says. ‘I can’t recommend it. Drowning.’

Farrier sits upright in his seat.

He remembers that day too well. According to psychologists, the mind has mechanisms to make painful memories appear less intense, more diluted in hindsight, but that day is still seared into his body and soul, and forever will be, in all its horrifying awfulness. No amount of effort, therapy, or wizardry could ever hope to erase it.

The memory is so vivid that it’s almost like he’s back there now, standing in Canfield’s office, hearing himself repeat, ‘“M.I.A.”?’

His voice sounds lifeless and remote, like it belongs to somebody else.

‘Yes,’ Canfield replies, scribbling something down on a piece of paper. ‘Last thing he said before the transmission cut off was that he’d taken a couple of hits in the left wing.’

Farrier feels like the floor is opening up underneath him. ‘So he’s—’

He can’t even bring it over his lips. That word is an impossibility.

‘I don’t know, son.’ Canfield finally looks up with tired eyes. ‘They were halfway back. Williams reported that he saw him going down, said it looked like Collins was trying to ditch her. He recorded his position and forwarded it immediately, but—’

But even that might not have been enough. If they were out over the open sea.

Farrier thinks he’s about to throw up. How many people had died in the Mediterranean Sea already? Thousands? A hundred thousand?

But those were always other people. Refugees, strangers. People Farrier feels sorry for but has never met. Not even deemed important enough by the Western press to make it into the headlines.

Suddenly, when it’s someone he knows – worse, when it’s Collins, of all people – he doesn’t absorb the news with the usual numbness. This is real.

It always was, but it takes this moment for him to realise that.

‘What can I do?’ he asks. ‘Tell me what to do.’

‘Nothing.’ Canfield gives him a pointed look. ‘There’s nothing. Wait. Pray, if you’re a believer. Not much else to do.’

The fourteen hours following that conversation are still the worst of his life, and that says a lot.

‘Tom?’ Collins’s voice pulls him back to the present. ‘Are you okay?’

He can tell from the slight tremble in Collins’s voice that he is remembering that day too.

‘Let’s talk about something else,’ he says, tone scratchy.

They must be close to the border by now; the landscape has turned greener and is beginning to look a lot like Scotland.

‘Gladly.’ Collins overtakes another lorry. He is getting the hang of this. ‘When was the last time you saw Murphy?’

‘Three years ago. Right before he went back home.’

‘You didn’t keep in touch?’ Despite the accusation, Collins doesn’t sound overly surprised. ‘What’s wrong with calling people every once in a while?’

‘I’m terrible at that.’

‘Aye, don’t I know it,’ Collins mutters.

Is he talking about them? 

Right now, Farrier doesn’t feel like opening that particular can of worms, so he says evasively, ‘I’m not like you.’

‘Social, you mean?’ Collins snorts. ‘You always like to pretend you’re not, but then you play Cricket with your Eton friends, and go to the pub with Alex, and to fancy parties with Liz, and on vacation with Hawkins and a bunch of—’

Collins stops himself mid-sentence, but Farrier is pretty sure his next words wouldn’t have been kind.

‘A bunch of what, Jack?’

‘Nothing,’ Collins snaps. It’s almost too easy, getting under his skin. ‘I’m sure they’re lovely.’

‘Oh, they were lovely women, for sure.’ Farrier can’t help but smirk. ‘Why do you care?’

‘I don’t.’

‘Right, because you’ve got that boyfriend.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ Collins grumbles. ‘Fine. I shouldn’t have lied, okay? Lying is bad, we get it. Can we let that go now?’

Farrier has to turn his face away again to hide the smug grin that has formed there. Good to have confirmation. ‘Why? Don’t want me to bring that up in front of your parents?’

Collins’s jaw clenches again. ‘They’re about to give me so much shit anyway.’

‘Because you’re bringing me?’

‘I’m not bringing you,’ Collins murmurs, exasperated. ‘This is not a date.’

Farrier decides it’s as good a time as any to start setting his plan in motion. ‘It isn’t? That’s a shame.’ Leaning over, he adds, tone lower, ‘You know how I like to end a good date.’

Collins sucks in a breath while Farrier is waiting for the explosion.

Ten, nine, eight …

Before Farrier can even reach five, Collins hisses through gritted teeth, ‘What the hell is this?’

‘What is what?’ Farrier asks innocently and leans back again.

Taking one hand off the steering wheel, Collins waves it in his general direction without looking at him. ‘This. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

‘Why, what am I doing? We’re just having a conversation.’

‘I told you where I stood. So quit flirting with me. I didn’t ring you last week because I’ve changed my mind. You’re just some bloke from my past.’

The last sentence takes the wind out of Farrier’s sails. He grimaces and turns to the window with a tight nod.

To his astonishment, Collins backpedals and throws him a rueful side glance. ‘No, actually … sorry. That was a cruel thing to say.’

‘Well, is it true?’ This time, it’s Farrier who can’t look at him. ‘Is that really how you feel?’

‘What do you think?’

The sudden intensity of Collins’s voice makes Farrier’s head whip around again.

‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I have no idea what to think anymore.’

‘Yeah.’ Collins rubs the back of his hand over his eyes, sounding strained. ‘I know the feeling.’

This time, the silence that stretches out between them feels awkward. Farrier turns away again and watches trees and other cars rush past them. The weather is much nicer than last night – perfect for a wedding.

‘We’re almost there,’ Collins says suddenly. Farrier jumps and sits upright – at some point, he must have drifted off, the few measly hours of sleep he’d got last night finally taking their toll. He rubs his eyes and stretches. In the reflection of his window, he can see that Collins is watching him. When he turns to look at him, Collins immediately averts his eyes.

Five minutes later, they’re driving through the outskirts of Edinburgh.

‘Eh – where exactly are we headed?’ Collins asks while leaving the motorway, frowning at the GPS. ‘The reception, the church, or … my folks’ house? If you want to head straight to the church, we can swap seats again, and you can drop me off here somewhere. Alice can pick me up.’

‘Don’t be silly. You’re going to your parents’ anyway, right?’

Collins nods stiffly and avoids his eye.

‘So just keep driving. You can drop yourself off. I’ll find the church myself. Or maybe spend the remaining hours till the ceremony in the city. It’s been a while since I’ve been to the castle. And the Fringe is happening too.’ Farrier realises while speaking that Collins is pressing his lips together, evidently not too happy about the first part of his proposal.

‘Eh,’ he makes, at a loss. ‘Or not. We don’t have to go to your house together. If you don’t want your family to think … eh – I mean … maybe you could park further down the road. They don’t have to … see me, if that’s not what you want.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’ Collins raises his chin. ‘I don’t have anything to hide.’

Because there is nothing going on between us, the pointed look he’s throwing Farrier clearly states.

Sighing, Farrier looks out the window again.

I’m in love with a stubborn fool.

Maybe getting Collins back is not going to be as easy as he’d hoped.

 *

‘Jack!’

Collins doesn’t even get the chance to close the car door before Alice flings herself at him. It is a hilarious sight, given that she’s five months pregnant and already round like a balloon. Though it goes without saying that Farrier would rather bite his tongue off than ever say that out loud – he is a gentleman after all.

Not able to hide his smirk, he shuts his own door and steps around the car. Collins has parked it right up in the Collins’ driveway, in clear sight of the house. Alice must have watched their arrival from the living room window.

Over Alice’s shoulder, Collins throws him a look that he can’t decipher. It’s obvious he is feeling out of his depth here. Not due to Alice’s affectionate greeting – he must be used to that, since the siblings have always been very fond of each other – but rather because of him.

The feeling’s mutual. There is no precedent for this; Farrier himself has no idea how to behave around Collins’s family. Chances are, they all hate him anyway for breaking their beloved boy’s heart. So he shouldn’t linger here for too long and impose on their hospitality, and instead focus on making up a polite excuse as to why he needs to be at the church early.

Finally, Alice releases Collins from her embrace and wipes the tears out of her eyes.

‘You’ve never been this happy to see me before,’ Collins points out with a big smile on his face that gives away his own fondness. He squeezes her shoulder gently, taking in the sight of her. ‘I could get used to that.’

‘Shut up, I’m pregnant. My hormones are out of control.’ Alice laughs. ‘The other day I was bawling my eyes out while I was eating crumpets, so I wouldn’t feel too special if I were you.’

‘Well, crumpets are delicious,’ Farrier says, and Alice pivots on her heels to look at him for the first time. ‘Hi, Alice.’

‘Christ.’ She gives him a once-over with a raised brow. ‘Still never skip a day at the gym, do you?’

Farrier lets out a laugh and then she’s suddenly right in his face, hugging him too. She smells good, and Farrier wonders instinctively if that’s her perfume or the pregnancy. That glow around her must be what everyone always talks about. She’s a gorgeous woman any day of the week, with her long blond hair and blue eyes – she looks so much like Collins it’s almost painful – but pregnancy for some reason seems to suit her particularly well.

‘Where is my goddaughter?’ Collins asks when Alice pulls back again.

‘With her dad. They’re coming straight to the reception so she can take her afternoon nap.’ She titters at the face Collins makes. ‘Oh, don’t look so disappointed. You’ll see her later.’

To Farrier, she says with a wink, ‘Sophie adores Jack. He was actually the first person she smiled at. I didn’t speak to him for three days after that.’

Collins grins. ‘She loves me more. Deal with it.’

‘Is that why you’re having a second one?’ Farrier jokingly asks Alice. ‘To compensate?’

Alice bursts into giggles and even Collins can’t help but break a smile.

‘Still as charming as ever, I see. You’re staying for lunch, right, Thomas?’ Without waiting for a reply, Alice grabs both their hands and drags them toward the house.

Farrier is at a loss. He’d not expected her to be so friendly, so welcoming. Back in the day, Alice used to be rather protective of Collins. Upon first meeting Farrier, she’d told him she’d have his balls for dinner if he ever dared hurt her big brother.

To which he’d responded, ‘Shouldn’t that be the other way around? Jack saying that to your boyfriends?’

She’d laughed. ‘He has. This is a mutual sibling agreement.’

Farrier, who doesn’t have any siblings, was instantly enamoured with her.

And still is. He respects her – she may be delicate, but she’s powerful, in a strange, terrifying way. Which is why he’d expected her to explode in his face – because he’d done it, the thing she’d threatened him about. He’d hurt Collins. Like nobody ever had before him.

That alone should make him enemy number one in Alice’s book.

But she’s only gazing at him expectantly with a warm smile as they reach the door, waiting for his answer.

Farrier’s eyes drift from her to Collins, who is also looking at him over the top of Alice’s head. His expression is indecipherable.

Farrier is about to open his mouth to politely decline her invitation, when Collins suddenly shrugs, as if to say, Fine, whatever.

‘Eh – sure,’ Farrier hears himself say. ‘Thank you.’

 *

Fifteen minutes later, he is seated at the dining table in the Collins’ living room, perched between Mrs Collins and Alice. Collins’s mother is shovelling fish pie onto his plate like he hasn’t eaten a proper meal in three years. Mr Collins – Senior – is talking animatedly about football with his son.

Mrs Collins had only done one double-take at him when he’d walked in, so Alice must have warned her parents that he was coming. Or maybe Collins had told his parents himself, in that text he’d sent them last night. Farrier isn’t sure which.

All he knows is that he’s more than just a little confused because, like Alice, Collins’s parents are treating him more like the prodigal son than the man who’d broken Collins’s heart.

Farrier doesn’t deserve this welcoming treatment.

‘What are you going to wear to the wedding, Thomas?’ Alice munches through a mouthful of fish pie.

He can feel Mrs Collins’s eyes on him too when he replies, ‘My dinner suit is in the car.’

‘Oh!’ Alice starts grinning. She bumps her brother’s shoulder. ‘Hear that, Jack? Thomas owns a dinner suit.’

‘So?’ He rolls his eyes. ‘I’ve never needed one before.’

‘Everyone should have one,’ Alice says. ‘When it comes to clothing, a man can do no wrong with black tie at any formal event.’

‘I disagree,’ Mrs Collins chimes in. Her blue eyes are impossibly kind when they land on Farrier. ‘I’m sorry, Tom, I’m sure your dinner suit is lovely, but the best thing a man can wear to a formal event is still a kilt.’ She winks at him. ‘No offence.’

‘None taken.’ He smiles at her. ‘And I actually agree with you. I’d wear one too if it weren’t, you know … sacrilegious for an Englishman.’

‘Oh, it would be indeed. You’d be hung, drawn, and quartered.’ Mrs Collins grins and turns to her son. ‘Jack, what about you? Are you going to wear your kilt today?’

‘No, Mum.’ Collins seems embarrassed to be the centre of attention all of a sudden. ‘Murphy isn’t even Scottish.’

‘His lass is, though,’ Mr Collins chimes in. ‘She was one of my students.’

Farrier is reminded that Collins’s dad is a teacher, a few years short of retirement. ‘Ah, so that’s why you’re all invited to the wedding?’

‘Aye,’ Alice says. ‘A damn shame if you ask me, all those Scots marrying into English families. Our heritage is dying.’ She dramatically places her hand over her heart.

Farrier grins, because the look Collins throws his sister is deadly.

‘Well, thank Christ you and Campbell are there to make sure the Scottish race endures,’ Collins says dryly. ‘Someone has to continue the bloodline, right?’

‘You’re right, someone has to.’ Alice sticks her tongue out at him. ‘Since you’re not likely to provide any heirs in the foreseeable future.’

‘Alice!’ Mrs Collins reprimands her, wide-eyed. ‘Apologise!’

‘It’s fine, Mum.’ Collins is purposefully avoiding looking at Farrier. ‘She’s just messing around.’

‘Still,’ Mrs Collins says, ‘we don’t joke about things like that in this family.’ She pats Collins’s cheek, ignoring the fact that he looks like wants to throw himself out of a window. ‘Jack can live his life however he chooses. We have no expectations.’

‘Thanks, Mum. Good to know.’ 

Farrier has to bite his tongue to not burst out laughing at Collins’s mortified expression.

Meanwhile, Alice looks deeply offended. ‘You know that’s not what I meant, Mum! Of course he can! I didn’t mean—’

As Alice and Mrs Collins begin bickering back and forth, Farrier locks eyes with Collins over the table. To Farrier’s surprise, he finds that Collins is also watching him. There is something akin to pity in his eyes.

Sorry, he mouths wordlessly.

Farrier shakes his head to signal it’s okay. This is why he loves Collins’s family. Their warmth. Their acceptance. It’s what Collins deserves, what everyone should have. It’s so different from Farrier’s own family, in the best way possible.

After they’ve finished lunch, Farrier finds himself alone in the kitchen with Mrs Collins, washing dishes. Collins and Alice have been ordered to clear the table, while Mr Collins is reading the newspaper in the sitting room.

‘So,’ Mrs Collins says, her blue eyes drilling into him, ‘how did this happen?’

‘You mean my being here?’ Farrier picks up another plate. ‘I’m sort of still wondering about that myself.’

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ she continues, ‘I’m very pleased to see you, Tom. But considering that my son has avoided mentioning your name like the plague during these last two years, you’ll have to forgive me for being a bit surprised to suddenly find you at my doorstep with him.’

Since Collins is not here to set things right, Farrier feels obligated to provide an explanation on his behalf. ‘It’s not what you think. We’re not back together.’

‘Aye, that’s what Alice said too.’ She hangs up her towel and leans against the sink, crossing her arms in front of her chest. ‘But that’s not the whole truth, is it? Because you wish you were.’

It takes every last ounce of self-control Farrier possesses to keep his expression neutral. Is it really that obvious?

Lying is pointless. Mrs Collins is a mother. They always know.

Instead, Farrier finds himself nodding. ‘Yes. I do.’

‘All right. So what are you going to do about it?’

He can only stare. ‘“Do about it”? You want me to get back with your son?’

Why don’t you hate me? he adds in his mind.

‘Thomas. I have never seen Jack happier with anyone else. From the moment he introduced you to us, I knew he was convinced you were the one. We all thought so too. But then you two ended your relationship, and he spent the better part of the next six months drunk on Alice’s couch.’ A frown appears on her face. ‘Maybe you weren’t ready at the time. You’ve had some time to reflect on that and I trust that you’ve done that. Lord knows you’ve been through a lot. But whatever the reason for your breakup was … if you do want him back, make sure you’re certain this time.’

Farrier has to take a clipped breath to digest that.

‘I am,’ he says then. ‘I love him.’

How many times has he said those words within the last twenty-four hours? Three? To both their mothers, and to Collins himself. Twice, the reaction hadn’t been what he’d wished for.

It’s different this time.

‘Good,’ Mrs Collins says, a warm smile on her face. ‘Because he deserves someone who does. He’s my boy. I will not entrust him to anyone who’s only in it half-heartedly.’

Farrier is starting to feel like he’s the one getting married today.

Chapter Text

3.

I knew you’d haunt all of my what-ifs

Contrary to some comments Alice has made in the past, Collins is an intelligent bloke.

That manifests in the way he is usually quite good at figuring out what other people are feeling. Which is how he knows Robert – his colleague / alleged boyfriend – has a bit of a crush on him. It’s why he’s able to maintain so many meaningful long-term friendships. It’s why old people tend to adore him.

It’s also how he knew right away six years ago that he’d triggered Farrier’s gay awakening merely by existing .

However, it doesn’t explain why he doesn’t come to That Particular Realisation while they’re getting ready for the church ceremony. Nor has he yet realised it when he and the other wedding guests first arrive at the reception, which is held at a charming, ancient farmhouse and its adjoining barn, surrounded by an orchard. Sure, he has more than one glass of both the champagne and the whiskey, but that’s no excuse.

Instead, the moment it does hit him comes a few minutes after he’s asked Murphy’s grandmother to dance. It’s early evening, the guests have gathered in the barn, the speeches and cake are over and done with, and Collins is overwhelmed by a sudden urge to move his body. Plus, the tiny old woman looks so lonely standing all by herself in a corner, her sad and envious eyes watching all of the young couples on the dancefloor, so Collins has no other choice, really. Contrary to some other comments Alice has made in the past, he is a gentleman.

Mrs Murphy is giggling with delight by the third time he’s spun her around, and as soon as Collins looks up from her wrinkled face, a big smile displayed on his own too, his gaze somehow meets Farrier’s across the room.

And Farrier … Farrier is staring back at him like he’s the centre of the universe. There is no other way Collins can describe it, no matter how cheesy it sounds and how much he wants to kick himself in the balls for his own inner soppiness. It’s the type of look the man gives the woman in one of those American romantic comedies that Farrier pretends to hate but secretly loves. Farrier is looking at him like there is no one else in the room. Like he’s about to walk down the damn aisle or something.

Nobody has ever looked at him that way before.

Farrier wants him back.

That’s it. That’s The Particular Realisation .

Fine. Perhaps he should have noticed it sooner.

After all, the signs were all there and altogether impossible to miss. Only last night had Farrier told him he was still in love with him. Then, in the car, he’d made innuendos that are still making Collins’s skin prickle whenever they flit across his mind. He’d charmed Collins’s sister and acted like the perfect son-in-law in front of his parents. Hell, he’d even washed the dishes for Collins’s mother!

So, yes. It’s obvious and Collins is an idiot.

Farrier is trying to win him back.

The thought makes his head spin. Though that may also be due to all the silly twirling he’s been doing over the last hour.

Or the whiskey. Could be the whiskey.

All the while, Farrier’s eyes are on him and burn into his side, through his clothes, into his skin.

Now that Collins is thinking back, even the whole Ewan situation earlier makes a whole lot of sense.

It was before they’d headed out to the church.

*

After lunch, Alice had laid down to take a quick nap and Collins’s parents had retreated upstairs to get ready. 

Collins and Farrier are in the living room, the latter pacing up and down and occasionally stopping to look at the pictures at the wall, and the former reading the newspaper in his father’s TV chair.

Collins refrains from telling Farrier that he already knows most of the photos anyway, from his last visit two years ago. His parents rarely add new ones – most of the pictures on the wall are still the same old baby photos of him and Alice. The only new ones are the ones with Sophie in them.

Speaking of Sophie …

‘She looks so much like your sister,’ Farrier says, smiling softly.

He points to a framed picture at the edge of the collection. In it, Sophie is splashing through a puddle, wearing mini-sized, scarlet red Wellie boots and a yellow raincoat. Her short platinum blond hair is braided in a wee plait and her smile shines brighter than the sun.

Collins’s heart swells just by looking at that photo. He’d even made it his phone wallpaper for a couple of months. Alice was right with what she’d said earlier – Collins and the little girl are bosom friends, of one mind. She has him wrapped around her little finger, and astonishingly, that feeling seems to be mutual.

‘She does, yeah.’

They lapse into silence again. Farrier moves on to the next part of the gallery wall, the one with Alice’s wedding photos.

An electronic ping informs Collins that he’s received a new message. He pulls out his phone.

I’m outside , it says.

He rolls his eyes. Can’t he ring the doorbell like a normal person?

Rising to his feet, Collins shoves his phone back into his pocket and makes his way into the hallway. Farrier’s eyes follow him, and Collins can tell that he’s biting back the question of where he’s going.

Good. None of his bloody business, anyway.

He opens the front door and there is Ewan, holding a black clothing bag and shuffling from foot to foot. Ewan’s whole face lights up when he sees him.

‘Hi, Jack!’ 

Collins smiles too and steps out of the house to embrace him. Since Ewan is one of those awkward huggers who pull back more than actually leaning in, Collins can’t help but feel a little relieved when it’s over, but immediately feels guilty about it. 

‘Thanks so much for stopping by, Ewan. I really appreciate it.’

Ewan, unlike him, is wearing a kilt, and Collins makes a mental note to tell his mother.

‘Don’t just stand around there. Come on in.’ Without looking if the other man is following, he leads the way into the living room.

Only when Ewan saunters through the living room door does Collins suddenly remember that Farrier is in there too.

Noticing it too, Ewan stops dead in his tracks. ‘Tom.’

With a jerk, Farrier’s head shoots up from the newspaper Collins had been reading just minutes prior. He locks eyes with Ewan. Within another second, his face has turned expressionless. Collins, who is standing between them, is startled by the sudden tension in the room.

Okay?

‘Ah, Ewan,’ Farrier says after a moment of awkward silence, and somehow makes it sound like an insult. ‘Jack mentioned that you’re lending him one of your suits. That’s awfully nice of you.’

‘Eh—’ Ewan makes dumbly.

‘It really is,’ Collins chimes in. ‘You’re really saving my arse here.’ He throws Farrier a deadly look that signals, What the fuck is your problem?

Farrier gives a simple shrug and, for his own part, continues to glare at Ewan.

‘What are you doing here, Tom?’ Ewan rounds Collins like he’s not even there and crosses his arms, gaze still fixed on Farrier.

‘I served with Murphy too, remember? He’s invited me.’

‘I meant here .’ Ewan turns to Collins again. ‘I thought the two of you broke up years ago.’

‘We did,’ Collins says. ‘Farrier just gave me a lift from London.’

‘Ah.’

‘Traffic was terrible, though.’ Farrier stands up and pushes his chair under the table. ‘And the weather too, blimey. Collins and I actually had to spend the night in a motel room together, can you believe it?’

Heat creeps into Collins’s cheeks again. Mostly due to embarrassment, yes, but fury as well. He’s already planning all the ways in which he’s going to murder Farrier as soon as Ewan turns his back or blinks for a millisecond.

That bastard makes it sound like we’ve …

‘Aye, well, my back still hurts from sleeping on the floor,’ he says, as indifferently as he can manage. ‘Can’t recommend it.’

Ewan’s face has turned red too, but he skilfully avoids Collins’s eye. ‘Didn’t you two break up after Alice’s wedding, back in the day?’

‘Not right after the wedding, no.’ Why the fuck is Ewan bringing this up right now? Collins doesn’t want to talk about this. Especially not with Farrier in the room. ‘A few months later. Why?’

‘Which one of you did? Break it off?’

‘I did,’ Farrier and Collins answer in unison.

Their eyes dart up and meet halfway in the air.

Ewan clears his throat. ‘Okay.’ The ‘O’ and the ‘A’ are rather long drawn.

Collins’s mind is reeling.

Farrier thinks he broke up with me ?

That concept had never even occurred to him.

To his indignation, Farrier is gaping at him like he’s thinking the exact same thing, only reversed .

The next moment, a burst of irritation fulminates in Collins’s chest, blazing and furious.

Farrier thinks he broke up with me ?

That arrogant wanker !

‘Jack.’ Ewan’s hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes it gently. ‘You might want to try it on. While we still have time.’

Ah. He’s talking about the suit he’s lending him – it takes a second for Collins’s muddled brain to catch up.

Something crosses Farrier’s face while he is watching them; his eyelid twitches. Collins holds his gaze irately for another second before he returns his attention back to Ewan and gives a terse nod. ‘You’re right. I should. Give me a minute.’

He takes the black bag up the stairs to his old room and leaves the two men in the living room on their own, not caring if they end up killing each other. They’ve never much liked each other.

What’s their deal anyway?

Collins shakes his head as he unzips the bag. He doesn’t have time for whatever this is.

Ten minutes later, he returns downstairs dressed in Ewan’s suit. When he steps into the living room, Ewan is nowhere to be found. Farrier has moved to stand in front of the Collins’ gallery wall again, and his two middle fingers brush against the glass of one of the pictures.

‘Where’s Ewan?’ Collins asks from where he’s standing in the door frame. The sound of his voice makes Farrier drop his hand and spin on his heels.

‘Jesus. You‘ve startled me. Your friend’s outside. Smoking, I think.’

He then drags his eyes up and down Collins’s body – examining his suit – and presses his lips together with something that looks an awful lot like disapproval.

‘Ah.’ Collins is beginning to feel uncomfortable under the intensity of his gaze. ‘Didn’t want to join him?’

Now that Collins comes to think of it – Farrier hasn’t smoked a single cigarette since London. Maybe he’s trying to give it up.

‘No,’ Farrier replies instantly but once again doesn’t provide any explanation as to why he seems to hate Ewan so much. Instead, he draws closer.

Collins’s heart jumps into his throat.

‘Why aren’t you wearing a kilt, Jack?’

Collins blinks. His eyes wander down his own body. When he’d glanced at himself in the bathroom mirror upstairs, he’d thought he looked handsome in Ewan’s suit. Farrier doesn’t seem to agree.

‘ Because .’ He spits the word out like a complete sentence, like a ten-year-old. ‘What business is that of yours?’

Farrier has the audacity to smirk, the utter bastard. ‘I’m sorry, but this is just not your colour.’

‘It’s black ,’ Collins says blankly.

‘Exactly my point.’

And now they’re staring at each other again, Collins incredulous because of Farrier’s rudeness and nerve, and Farrier … God knows. God only knows what Farrier is thinking. Collins has given up trying to make sense of him. That man remains an enigma.

He always seems to know how to get under Collins’s skin.

What is worse is that Collins is now seriously beginning to question his own decision to wear the suit.

This is just not your colour .

Not that he cares about Farrier’s opinion, but …

Oh, damn it.

 *

‘Jack, I think I need to sit down for a bit, my boy,’ Mrs Murphy says breathlessly, cheeks glowing red.

‘Oh, I’m glad you said that.’ With his free hand, Collins fans himself. ‘I’m a bit out of breath myself.’

It’s not true, of course; he hasn’t even broken a sweat yet. But she looks so pleased with herself that he can’t bring himself to feel guilty about the little white lie. He takes her arm and accompanies her off the dancefloor. The heels of her shoes are clicking on the hardwood floor with every one of her tiny steps. Collins hopes if he ever reaches her age, he’ll be as fit.

Mrs Murphy, huffing and puffing, allows him to lead her to a table in the sitting area. He lends her a hand when she goes to sit on one of the white, cushioned chairs and pours her a glass of water, which she accepts gratefully.

‘Thank you.’ She gulps down more than half of it and inhales heavily. Collins plops down on a seat next to her and lets his gaze drift through the room, carefully avoiding looking at the corner where he knows Farrier is standing.

‘You should get back on the dancefloor, dear. Don’t mind me.’ Mrs Murphy says and gestures at the dancing couples. ‘I wouldn’t want to deny all those young ladies the pleasure of having such a nimble-footed partner.’

Collins can’t bite back a snort. ‘I think I’m good for now.’

‘Though it might not only be the young ladies who are after a dance with you.’

His head jerks around. ‘Excuse me?’

Her smile is a million years old. ‘I’m ninety-five, my boy. My eyesight may not be the best these days, but I’m not entirely blind yet, you know. That handsome lad over there’ – not overly subtle, she points in a certain direction – ‘has been staring at you all day.’

Collins doesn’t need to follow her gaze – and deliberately doesn’t – to know whom she is talking about.

For fuck’s sake . Somebody kill me, please.

‘Has he?’ he replies, a little too indifferent. ‘Blimey. I must have got salad stuck between my teeth or something.’

She laughs. ‘Hardly. Is he your sweetheart?’

Not able to contain it, Collins snorts a breath through his nose at the word ‘sweetheart.’ If Farrier could hear that … The term seems so inappropriate, so inadequate to refer to someone like Farrier, who is built like a brick shithouse.

Which is unfortunately still very sexy.

Bad. Very bad. Stop, brain.

Before Collins can inform her that Farrier is most definitely not his ‘sweetheart’, Mrs Murphy goes on saying, ‘He is a very attractive man.’

The denial gets stuck halfway in Collins’s throat. He finds himself glancing at Farrier’s corner for the first time in a while, only to be oddly disappointed when he sees that Farrier is now in a lively conversation with Greg and his wife and isn’t watching him anymore.

No. This is good . It’s good that he’s not looking.

God, it’s embarrassing how hard he’s trying to fool himself.

Because the truth is: Mrs Murphy is right. Farrier is a sight for sore eyes in his insolently sexy dinner suit. He’d put a bit of gel in his hair before the church ceremony, which has mostly come out by now and gives the strands a look of controlled messiness. Because he is one of those men who would have to shave twice a day to be considered clean-shaven, a hint of stubble has already started to appear on his chin again. Collins likes him better this way anyway, a bit scruffy. Not taking the dinner suit into consideration, Farrier looks the way he used to, back when they were in the RAF together – like he’s just climbed out of his aircraft. 

It shouldn’t be this attractive.

Collins brings his eyes back to the table. His tongue feels slightly coated.

‘Aye,’ he mutters. ‘I suppose he is.’

‘Take it from an old bird like me: Good men are hard to come by. If you’ve got your claws in one, don’t let him get away.’

‘Thanks.’ Collins grins. ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

‘I used to have a good man too,’ she says and leans back against her chair. It is rather obvious that it’s meant to be the preamble of a much longer story.

Collins briefly wonders what it is about him that makes elderly women always seem so eager to tell him about their deceased husbands, but feels strangely flattered by it all the same.

Succumbing to his curiosity, he takes the bait. ‘How did you two meet?’

‘It was in 1940. During the evacuation of Dunkirk.’

Collins can feel his jaw drop. This, he did not expect.

‘I was sixteen, helping my father with his boat. The Navy had asked for more ships. We decided to go to France too.’ A thoughtful expression enters her face. ‘We never made it there, but we did manage to fish a few of our Tommies out of the channel after a Luftwaffe bomber destroyed their ship. And then there he was. Soaked and slick with oil, dead tired. They’d been in the sea for quite a bit. He looked at me like he’d never seen a woman before.’ She giggled like a little girl. ‘Which I suppose, they all did, after a couple of months in France without lasses. It made me feel uneasy with some of them. But when he did it, it didn’t bother me at all. He had this way of looking that made me feel … seen. It made me feel special.’

Collins knows the type of look she’s describing too well. It’s the kind that sends electric shocks down his spine whenever Farrier …

‘He was five years older than me, but I didn’t care.’ Her glassy gaze turns inward, or is focused on something unseeable, far away. ‘He asked me to become his wife two years later, while he was on leave. We were married for fifty-three years.’

‘That’s a lovely story.’

‘I wonder how many other people can say that they hold that day in fond memory, that last day of the evacuation.’

‘Not too many, I’d imagine.’ He grins. ‘Churchill, maybe. If he were still alive.’

‘It was a memorable day for our country.’ She smiles and pats his cheek. ‘But what I mean to say with all this is that you can trust me because I know a good man when I see one. You’re one. And your sweetheart over there – he’s one too. You should ask him to dance. I’m sure he’d love to.’

‘Eh – I’m quite knackered,’ he mumbles. ‘Think I’ve done enough dancing for the time being.’

When, a couple of minutes later, Mrs Murphy’s niece comes over to talk to her, Collins excuses himself and leaves Mrs Murphy to her own devices to go to the loo. There he locks himself in a cubicle and rests a heated cheek against the cooling wood of the door.

Why is everyone suddenly so keen to bring up the subject of Farrier with him? Why can’t they just leave him in peace? First Ewan, now Mrs Murphy.

In between, Alice.

*

They are outside the church in Edinburgh and Alice is dragging him aside with a firm, forceful hand on the collar of his shirt. The bride and groom had climbed into their car and driven off just a few minutes ago, and most of the other wedding guests are rushing to their own vehicles to follow them to the reception – which isn’t being held in the city itself but in a small village south of St. Andrews – so no one is paying attention to them. 

‘I don’t hate him anymore,’ Alice proclaims as soon as they have rounded a corner and are out of earshot of the crowd, but her voice is still far too loud for Collins’s liking. 

He shushes her with raised hands. ‘Do we have to do this now?’ 

‘Aye, we do.’ Alice raises a brow. ‘I’ve tried to hate him, for your sake, but I can’t pretend any longer. The truth is, I adore him. I know he broke your heart and all, but you need to get your shit together. You should have seen how he looked at you in the church when you walked in. That man is whipped for you.’

He crosses his arms in front of his chest, assuming a defensive battle stance. ‘Great. I love it when everybody keeps telling me how I should feel.’ 

‘He’s sorry, Jack. Any idiot can see that. Let it go.’

‘You make it sound like we broke up due to a silly trifle.’

‘All breakups happen due to silly trifles.’

‘Not ours.’ That familiar ache pierces his heart again. It never seems to have gone away. ‘He was such a dick that night I went to Tintagel with Alex. I wasn’t going to put up with that. Nor the rest.’

She sighs. ‘It’s in the past, brother dearest. Give the man a chance. I think he’s going to throw himself off a bridge if you won’t sleep with him soon.’

‘Don’t joke about that!’ he snaps. ‘Mum was right. Your humour really is taking it a step too far.’

‘Relax. I’m just saying. Everybody deserves a second chance, right? He’s been to hell and back, so maybe it’s time to give him a break.’

‘Not a chance.’

*

And now Collins is here, locked in the bathroom like a lovesick teenage girl after yet another person has told him to get over his anger and forgive Farrier. But things are not that simple. Nobody can look inside his head, so they couldn’t possibly understand the devastation he’d felt two years ago.

It had all started with a letter.

Collins closes his eyes and suddenly he’s back in Farrier’s flat on that sunny morning in December.

*

Blinking against the brightness and his own fatigue, he’s half-blindly walking down the hallway to get the newspaper. Why Farrier still needs to read a physical newspaper when he could get an online subscription is beyond him.

At the front door, Collins bends down to pick up the post of the day.

The usual. Invoices, flyers, leaflets. The Guardian .

Then his fingertips brush over the envelope, soft and creme-coloured. On it, Farrier’s name and address are written in actual black ink, in the fanciest handwriting Collins has ever seen.

The Honourable Thomas William Albert Farrier, the first line says.

Snorting, Collins carries the letter, alongside the other post, back into their bedroom. It’s one of those rare mornings during which Farrier is still in bed after Collins has already got up. For once Farrier has allowed himself to sleep in; the previous night, he had been out late at a work event and didn’t get back until three a.m.

Collins crouches on the bed next to Farrier’s motionless, drowsy frame and bends down to brush his teeth over Farrier’s ear before whispering teasingly, ‘Good morning, Honourable Thomas William Albert Farrier, Sir .’

For good luck, he also plants a kiss between Farrier’s naked shoulder blades, right above his pilot wings tattoo.

Farrier stirs with a languorous sigh, then rolls around and grabs Collins’s shoulders when he tries to withdraw again. After pushing himself up a half-sitting position with his elbows, Farrier drags Collins’s mouth down to meet him in a wet kiss.

‘What did you just call me?’ he asks when Collins pulls back for air a little later.

‘Sir,’ Collins replies with a grin.

‘You know that’s not what I meant.’

‘Oh, you mean the other thing. Right. You got a letter.’ He holds it up and spins it between his fingers.

Farrier’s smirk fades away as he eyes the letter suspiciously. ‘Ah.’

‘Can’t believe I’m dating a bloke who has an ‘Honourable’ as a prefix. I’m going to have to burn my “Eat the Rich” T-Shirt before we get married.’

‘Are you proposing, baby?’ 

‘Not just yet.’ Collins grins and hands him the letter. ‘Are you not going to open it?’ 

‘Fine.’ Farrier rips the letter open carelessly with his index finger and pulls out what looks like a wedding invitation. His eyes flit over the words swiftly before he shoves the card back into the envelope.

Collins raises his eyebrows. ‘So? What does it say?’

‘It’s nothing. Just an invitation to one of these fancy upper-class balls. My mother’s already told me there would be one.’

A ball? Collins’s eyebrow rises even higher. ‘The rich still hold balls? Good Lord.’

‘Look at you, my sweet, innocent, middle-class boy. Of course they do.’ Farrier ruffles through his hair and Collins ducks away. ‘Doesn’t matter. I’m not going to go.’

‘Why not?’

‘These things are a downright bore, trust me. My mother made me go to a few of them and I hated every second each time. You’d understand if you’d ever been to one.’

‘Well, I bet we could make it fun.’ Collins doesn’t know why he says it, or where the words are coming from. Maybe it’s an attempt to better understand Farrier’s world. Maybe deep down Collins just likes the idea of accompanying Farrier to a ball .

Oh bloody hell. Is he a stupid Disney princess now?

When Farrier’s eyes dart to meet his, the expression in them is unreadable.

‘I mean … dancing. Fancy clothes. Talking shit about rich people. I could imagine worse things,’ Collins goes on with a shrug. ‘All I’m saying is I’m in if you are.’

‘Jack,’ Farrier begins, and his heart sinks instantly. It’s not one of Farrier’s good ‘Jack’s. ‘These people, they are not exactly … progressive.’

‘Meaning they hate gays.’

‘Most of them vote Tory. Scratch that, all of them vote Tory. They’re a bunch of stuck-up conservative arseholes with right-wing tendencies and polo equipment. It’s … not your milieu.’ When he sees the sceptical expression on Collins’s face, he adds quickly, ‘Nor mine!’

That is only half true, though. Because Farrier is one of them, whether he wants it or not.

Collins tries to turn away to hide his disappointment. He can’t even say why this upsets him. It’s not like he doesn’t know where Farrier comes from, what expectations he has to fulfil. Collins has always known this, from the beginning. Holding his wealth and societal standing against Farrier would be unfair – it’s not Farrier’s fault that he was born into the upper class. He can’t change who he is.

A rational portion of Collins’s mind knows all this, but sometimes it’s still hard not to feel like they’re from altogether different planets.

Farrier’s hand takes a hold of his chin and pulls his face around. ‘Don’t be mad. I have no intention of going there. We can both stay at home that night and pick up something from Nando’s. Just the two of us. It’s been a while since we last had a date night.’ To punctuate his words, Farrier kisses him and pries his lips apart with his tongue. Once he pulls back, he adds with a smirk, ‘And after, I’ll fuck your brains out the entire night. Feel free to call me ‘sir’ anytime you want.’

In stark contrast to his eye roll, Collins can do little else than rasp into Farrier’s mouth as he is being rolled onto his back.

Still, he does feel appeased after that.

*

Back in the present, Collins lets out a groan against the wall of the toilet stall.

During the last two years, he’d tried so hard to avoid remembering those little snippets of his relationship with Farrier, but they all come rushing back with a vengeance now. It’s like Farrier has torn down the floodgate to that particular area of his brain, and the mental walls Collins has built up around that time are getting washed away by the force of a tidal wave.

A tidal wave with steely grey-blue eyes and an eight-pack.

To rid himself of the memories, Collins throws a glance at his watch. It’s almost midnight. He must have danced for longer than he’d thought.

He’s also in dire need of another drink, so, after splashing a bit of water into his face, he returns to the barn.

The party is still in full swing. Smiling, Collins watches Alice slow dance with Campbell to a Taylor Swift song on the dancefloor. Little Sophie has already gone home with Collins’s cousin – her babysitter for the night – a few hours previously; the little girl is not old enough to stay up so late. Before she’d left, Collins had to promise his niece to stick around in Scotland for one more day and come over for a playdate with her tomorrow. Sophie is not even two yet and has only recently started to speak, but Collins is under the impression she’d understood his meaning just fine.

He walks farther into the barn and straightens his collar, which is a bit wet now. On the far side of the room, his dad is sitting at a table with several other older men, engaged in what seems to be a heated discussion about Scottish independence and the referendum in 2014. Not unusual during half-English, half-Scottish weddings. Old rivalries die hard.

Farrier is nowhere in sight.

‘If you’re looking for Tom, he’s at the house.’

Collins spins around to find Ewan behind him, his long limbs outstretched on one of the white chairs.

‘I wasn’t,’ he says reflexively, but then repeats in confusion, ‘“The house”?’

Ewan gestures in the vague direction of the courtyard. ‘The farmhouse we went through earlier when we got here. It’s part of the venue too. They’re serving a midnight buffet there.’

Ah. That makes sense. Leave it to Farrier to go where the food is. All that muscle tissue needs fuel, probably.

Collins doesn’t reply and instead steps closer to Ewan’s table to pour whiskey from a bottle into an unused glass. He brings it to his lips and downs it. The taste burns in his throat and makes him grimace.

Ewan eyes his now-empty glass with a frown. In the back of his mind, Collins registers that the other man himself only has a glass of coke next to him on the table. Perhaps he’s driving.

‘I don’t know what you see in him,’ Ewan says suddenly. ‘He’s an arrogant prick.’

Collins groans. ‘Why does everyone keep bringing up Farrier with me today? I’m not here with him. Not his bloody keeper either.’ He slams his glass back down onto the table. ‘But you’re wrong. He’s not an arrogant prick.’

‘Oh, but he is. He’s been staring at you all day in that possessive way, like you belong to him. It’s creepy. Like he’s entitled to have you.’

‘Well, his dad is a baron or something. Entitlement happens to be a big thing in his social circle.’ Why does it piss him off so much that Ewan is talking shit about Farrier? He shouldn’t care. In fact, he should agree .

‘You deserve better. After everything he’s done.’

Collins chuckles darkly. ‘Spare me, I beg you. I have zero intention of getting back together with him.’

‘Good.’ Ewan draws in a deep breath. ‘Because—’

‘Jackie!’ Out of nowhere, Collins is assaulted from behind. Two big arms are wrapping themselves around his waist and lift him in the air. The yelp he lets out is rather undignified for a fighter pilot, and he sends a plea up to heaven that nobody’s heard it.

Two seconds later he is put back onto his feet. Campbell releases him from his tight bear hug and steps back, instead slinging one arm around Alice, who has come up behind him.

‘Enjoying your night out without the little one?’ Collins asks them and mimics overdramatic kissing with his mouth. ‘Finally danced enough, have you?’

‘Never.’ Alice boxes his shoulder. ‘We’re only taking a break.’

‘Aren’t your feet killing you?’ he asks.

‘Are you calling me fat?’

‘Are you calling my wife fat?’ Campbell cuts in and raises both of his fists, boxing style.

‘She’s my sister, I’m allowed to.’ Despite his words, Collins holds his palms outward placatingly. ‘And no. I’m calling her pregnant .’

Alice throws one of her arms around his waist. ‘I know you love me. No matter how much you’re trying to hide it.’ She gives him a once-over from the side. ‘You look good, by the way. Mum was nearly bawling earlier while you were dancing, she looked so proud.’

‘I’m glad you’ve not let me down, mate.’ Campbell grins at him. ‘When Alice kept going on and on about black tie, I was beginning to get a bit worried I’d be the only one properly representing the Scottish fraction at this thing here today.’

Self-conscious, although both Campbell and Ewan are wearing theirs too, Collins rubs a palm over the tartan of his kilt. ‘Well, Alice has already accused me of failing to preserve my national heritage once today. I won’t stand for it a second time.’

At least that’s what he’s been trying to tell himself this entire afternoon and evening. He’s only doing it to prove a point to Alice. Maybe also to make his mother happy. It has nothing to do with Farrier’s words.

Not a single thing.

The sound of his stomach growling cuts through the silence. ‘I’m going to grab a bite. I’m starving. Did my fair share of dancing too, tonight.’ He turns to Alice. ‘Do you want me to get you something?’

His sister shakes her head and threads her arm through his. ‘I’m actually going to come with you. I could eat a bloody horse.’

Leaving Ewan – who is avoiding Collins’s eye for whatever reason – and Campbell behind at the barn, the two siblings head over to the farmhouse.

The venue is incredible. Collins catches himself thinking that if he ever did decide to get married – which he probably won’t, but hey, a little daydreaming doesn’t hurt – this would be the perfect place for it. The house and farm must be centuries old by the look of them. Olivia had told them during her wedding speech that the barn used to house horses at some point in the 19 th century but has long since been transformed into a party hall. It’s been family-owned for decades.

The courtyard Collins and Alice are walking across now is illuminated by orange lanterns and fairy lights. They remind him of the ones Alice had bought for her own wedding, which he and Farrier had helped put up – and struggled with – for over an hour. 

Here in the courtyard, they set a rather romantic atmosphere.

‘Lovely here, don’t you think?’ Alice is one of the few people who are always able to read his mind.

‘Aye, it is.’

‘Deep down, you’re a soppy romantic too, admit it.’

The funny thing is that Collins doesn’t even think that part of him is buried too deeply. It’s close to the surface, his emotional side. Most of the time – at least when he’s not in the middle of a panic attack – he feels quite comfortable talking about emotions. It doesn’t make him uneasy as it does some other men.

Unless it’s with Farrier.

That’s only because he’s been burned before, though.

 *

Two months after he’d first seen the letter, Collins has already forgotten all about it. Farrier has never mentioned it again either.

That night, the night it happens, begins with Collins in the car next to Alex.

The two of them are on a road trip, on their way to Tintagel, Cornwall. They have been planning that weekend getaway ever since Alex mentioned he’d never been to that part of the country. He’s also not yet seen Tintagel Castle. Although Collins has, he doesn’t mind visiting it again – if only to assist Alex with closing that particular gap in his education.

Just joking. He couldn’t care less about Alex’s education – that train has left the station.

Any excuse to go to an old castle.

They’d invited Farrier to come along too, and he’d tried his best to get some time off work, but in the end, it wasn’t approved by his boss. His firm is planning to finalise a big take-over in the next few days, so Farrier – who is in charge of the project – is required to be on call at all times.

Which is why it’s just him and Alex.

Collins is already sort of regretting this. Within the last twenty minutes, Alex hasn’t once stopped running his mouth to take a breath. Collins’s head has long since started buzzing while trying to remember the names of all these women Alex has allegedly shagged in just the last two months. After a while, he gives up. It’s impossible to keep track.

They’ve barely made it out of London, crawling forward inch by inch through the slow evening traffic, when he realises he’s forgotten his phone at home.

Fuck .

Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. Collins doesn’t mind leaving his phone behind when he goes out. On the contrary, sometimes he deliberately chooses not to bring it. It feels good to just focus on the present and be more in the moment.

This time, however, he needs it.

Because Alice’s due date is imminent. It could be today; could be tomorrow. Any day now. She’s going to give birth down here in London too, so there is no chance in hell he is going to miss out on that. She’s already promised him he’s going to be godfather.

‘We need to turn around,’ he cuts into Alex’s stream of consciousness.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Alex turns to gape at him.

‘I forgot my phone at home. I need it. My sister could give birth any day now. If that happens, I need to know – I have to be there.’

‘You must be joking.’ Alex points to the road, pissed off. ‘You’re telling me I have to turn around on the fucking M25, at this time of day? Do you know how bonkers that is? We won’t make it to Tintagel till long past midnight!’

‘Sorry.’ The apology comes out rather half-heartedly because Collins couldn’t give less of a shit. He needs his phone. ‘Would you please go back? Pretty please? I’ll call the B&B from your phone and tell them we’ll be late. Perhaps they can put a key under the doormat or something.’

Alex groans and doesn’t talk to him for the next ten minutes but drives off at the next exit anyway. Collins’s shoulders relax when London’s skyline eventually reappears in front of him.

Over the next one and a half hours, he kind of has to admit that Alex may have had a point. London traffic is a nightmare at this time of day.

But what would have been the alternative? Alice’s first child is – and rightfully so – his first priority right now.

When they finally reach Collins’s street, Alex stops the car engine in a no-standing zone and tells him to hurry the fuck up. Collins gives him a one-fingered salute but, on the way to his flat, walks a bit faster than he normally would anyway.

Only so long as Alex is watching him in the rear-view mirror, though.

In their building, Collins quickly climbs the stairs and gets his key out, then unlocks the door to their flat. As he steps into the broad, dark hallway, his ears catch the sound of two voices – Farrier’s, and that of a woman.

Collins smiles to himself. Maybe Farrier had decided to invite Liz over for a movie night after all. Nobody can be working all day long, not even a workaholic like Farrier.

Quite certain that he’d last used his phone in the kitchen, Collins decides to look there first. Alex’s threat to hurry up is still ringing in his ears.

His memory hasn’t deceived him – his phone is there on the counter, still sitting exactly where he’d left it.

Not wanting to waste more time, Collins picks it up, shoves it into his pocket, and rushes to the door. He checks his watch quickly – they can still make it to Tintagel at a reasonable hour, he gathers, if Alex drives like a maniac. Which he always does anyway.

As soon as he’s pulled the kitchen door shut behind him, he freezes.

A gorgeous dark-haired woman has walked out of the living room and is now gawking at him from the other side of the hallway. It’s definitely not Liz. Nor is it any other of Farrier’s female friends.

For a split second, Collins is too surprised by the sight of this stranger to say anything. Then he clears his throat. ‘Eh – hi.’

‘Who are you?’ she spits. ‘Why do you have a key to Tom’s flat?’

His stomach lurches.

Who am I? Who the fuck are you?

But his chest feels so tight that the only thing he can think of to say is, ‘I live here.’

That’s when he first notices that she’s dressed in a floor-length, scarlet ball gown. The dress is cut out a tad too much to still be considered decent. The woman is also wearing a ton of makeup and a diamond necklace, which makes her look like she’s walked straight out of an edition of Glamour magazine.

‘You what?’ she says, still in that shrill, rude tone. Without waiting for an answer, she turns to the open living room door. ‘You didn’t mention you had a roommate, Tom.’

He must be dreaming. This has to be a nightmare. His mind hasn’t fully processed yet what’s happening, but something is going on.

The next second, Farrier appears behind her in the doorway. His face is a flushed mask, adnd he looks as thunderstruck as Collins feels.

Collins’s knees are about to give in. It feels like a confirmation of some sort. If Farrier is looking at him like this – if he feels guilty – then …

That means there has to be something for him to feel guilty about .

‘Jack.’ Farrier sounds winded. ‘I thought you’d—’

‘Be halfway across the country already?’ Collins may still be too shocked to grasp the meaning of it all, but he senses that whatever this is, it’s bad. ‘Sorry to disappoint.’

What the hell is going on here?

‘We have to go, Tom.’ Red-dress tart says after glancing at her jewelled wristwatch. ‘Doors open at nine.’

Farrier ignores her and continues to stare at Collins.

Doors open at nine?

Oh, fuck. Farrier is wearing a fucking dinner suit .

That’s when it hits Collins.

‘Oh my god. You’re going to the thing .’

That seems to wake Farrier from his stupor, because he abruptly bolts forward. By instinct, Collins staggers back at the same time. His shoulders collide with the wall behind him.

‘Jack—’

‘You’re going to that ball,’ Collins says, out of breath like he’s run a lap around the block. His eyes flick back and forth between Farrier and the woman. ‘You’re going to that ball … with her .’

Every single word comes out like an accusation. That’s how he intends it, too.

He’s never felt so betrayed in all his life.

He can see Farrier wince. ‘That’s not what—’

‘“It’s not what it looks like?”’ Collins lets out a dry laugh, even though he feels like he’s dying inside. ‘Seriously? Do you think I’m stupid ?’

‘No, no, that’s not—’ Farrier has finally crossed the hallway and comes to a stop in front of him. He reaches out and tries to touch his face, but Collins flinches away.

‘Don’t you dare fucking touch me right now!’

‘I’m not—this is just for tonight!’ Farrier implores, voice laced with desperation. ‘I’m only going to the party with her! Other than that, it’s nothing, I swear! You have to believe me!’

Collins’s initial shock has passed – he is fuming . ‘Nothing! If it’s nothing, why wait until I’m out of the city? As if you were having a fucking affair behind my back! I even asked you to go to this thing with me!’

With pleading eyes, Farrier extends his hand again. Collins slaps it away.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck .

‘“Affair?” What the fuck is this?’ Red-dress tart gapes at them, her lips parted. ‘Is he your fucking boy toy or something?’ She spits out the word ‘boy toy’ like it’s the most disgusting insult she can think of. Collins has never felt the desire to hit a woman before, but he could make an exception for this one.

‘Shut up,’ Farrier snaps at her. ‘He’s my boyfriend.’

The weight of the situation hits Collins in the face with the force of a freight train.

Farrier is going to that ball with that tart. For no other reason than that she’s a woman .

He can spin the facts around in his head all he wants, look at this from all angles, but the fundamental, devastating conclusion remains: Farrier would rather go with this hellcat than with him, his own boyfriend.

Enough to lie about it.

Enough to do it behind his back, like a fucking adulterer.

All of a sudden Collins is overwhelmed by a powerful urge to punch Farrier in the face, something he’s never felt before. He needs to punch something . His hands ball into fists at his sides. He’s going to go crazy if he doesn’t get to release this tension.

Another side of him just wants him to curl up into a ball, bawl his eyes out, and die.

Farrier is ashamed of him.

Fuck. That knowledge hurts like fuck.

‘Not anymore,’ he manages to hiss and rips his arm away when Farrier tries to grab him. ‘I’m done. If you’re this embarrassed to be seen with me—’

‘What—’ Farrier reels, eyes blown wide with shock. ‘Jack, no —’

His eyes have begun to sting, and he has to get out of here. There is no way he’s going to break down in front of that woman and Farrier.

Taking advantage of the adrenaline that’s rushing through his veins, Collins shoves Farrier out of the way and dashes out of the flat in a dizzy haze. By the time he reaches the door, his vision has already turned blurry.

While he rushes down the stairs, jumping down two at a time with each step, he hears Farrier call after him, desperate, pleading.

He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t stop.

They are so over.

 *

‘I hope they have those Mini-Burgers,’ Alice says, ripping him out of the memories.

Collins clears his throat; it feels dry. ‘Mini-Burgers?’

‘Are you even listening to me? Christ.’ She waves a hand in front of his face. ‘Pay attention.’

They are standing in front of the midnight buffet in the farmhouse. Alice’s plate is already half-full – his own still empty.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbles.

But Alice isn’t even listening to him anymore. She’s moved on, farther up the buffet, and is shovelling a variety of different types of sandwiches onto her plate. Collins watches her with fascination. How can someone so small eat so much? Sure, she may be tall for a woman, but she’s still his little sister. How does all of that stuff even fit inside her?

Ugh.

He realises he’s lost his appetite, despite his stomach’s rumbling protest – it’s still growling every once in a while. Maybe he can come back and have something later. 

A quick glance at the clock on one of the wood-panelled walls tells him that it’s almost two o’clock.

Christ. Where did the time go? Wasn’t it midnight just a few minutes ago?

Perhaps he’s drunker than he’d thought.

For some reason that one How I Met Your Mother episode he’d watched with Brad a couple of years ago creeps to the forefront of his mind. He remembers that quote from it, which was also the episode’s title:

‘Nothing good happens after 2 a.m.’ 

Collins can only hope it’s not a bad omen.

While he’s putting his plate away again, the sound of music from the adjoining room makes his ears prick up. Curious, he rounds the corner and enters the hall. It’s a big room – not quite a ballroom, but large enough to hold a minimum of fifty to sixty people. In the centre of the room, he spots a group of mahogany tables and upholstered sofas. The walls are adorned with paintings and tapestries, which gives the room the look of a Victorian establishment. Perhaps the owners of the venue – who seem to be in some way related to Olivia – hold weddings in here too in the winter, when celebrations outside in the barn are made impossible by the cold.

This room isn’t as busy and lively as the barn, but some members of the wedding party have found their way in here too. Candles on the tables and walls, as well as a fireplace, are the only sources of light, casting a warm glow. In the middle of the room, Collins can just about make out the groom and bride, Murphy and Olivia, snuggled up against one another on one of the couches. Half asleep already, Olivia is resting her head against Murphy’s shoulder. He, in turn, has both of his arms wrapped around her. It’s a picture of joy and happiness, of bliss and harmony.

Collins can’t help but smile; not only is he happy for his mate, but he’s also grown very fond of Olivia over the last year. The two of them make a good couple, it’s plain to see.

It makes perfect sense that they are exhausted, though. It’s been a long day for them.

At that moment, Murphy raises his chin up from Olivia’s hair and meets Collins’s eyes. They grin at each other. Collins gives him a thumbs-up. Good job not messing it up with her, twat .

Murphy gives him the finger, clearly instinctively knowing what Collins is trying to tell him without words. Then, with a smug grin, he points to the far side of the room and mouths something that looks an awful lot like get laid.   

Collins follows Murphy’s gaze.

A small group of people has gathered there, standing some distance apart. With his curiosity ignited, Collins crosses the room to see what they’re doing. The music gets louder with every step he takes.

So this is where Farrier has gone off to . Collins’s breath hitches when it dawns on him what scene he’s stumbled upon.

He stops a few feet away from the back of the piano and leans his backside against the scratchy backrest of one of the couches. That’s when the little crowd in front of him parts and reveals the man sitting at the instrument.

Farrier’s fingers are dancing over the keys like he’s never done anything else, like he’s been born on one. 

Knowing Farrier’s mother, Collins actually wouldn’t be too surprised by that. 

It’s been such a long time since he has last heard Farrier play that he’s almost forgotten he knows how to. And even then, back in the day, Farrier only used to play on a number of special occasions – birthdays, Christmas, the usual. Once, Farrier had played solely for him too, while they were on their first vacation together in South England in the middle of the night in an old country house, and only on Collins’s explicit request. He hadn’t been able to sleep. Farrier had played for him until he’d drifted off on the couch next to him. That’s perhaps one of his top ten memories … ever.

But Farrier had only played silly little tunes at the time.

This, right now, feels different. This is something else entirely. 

Farrier isn’t looking at any of his spectators; rather, all of his attention seems immersed in the task his hands are occupied with. Collins has never heard the song he’s playing, but it doesn’t matter because he doesn’t have to know it; all he can think is that it sounds otherworldly, mesmerising.

A young red-haired woman in a green dress next to him is crying silently, eyes fixed on Farrier too.

I had no idea he could play like this .

If he’d known, he would have made him play all the time. The odd Christmas song couldn’t compare.

Then, seconds before the last notes of the song roll from the keys under his fingers, Farrier raises his head and finally brings his gaze up from the piano.

Like they’re guided by an invisible force, his eyes find Collins’s across the room. In this light, they look more grey than blue. Collins can’t avert his own; he’s trapped.

The only rational thought his mind manages to produce is, Nothing good happens after 2 a.m.

And also,

I’m so, so fucked.

Chapter Text

4.

I miss it all, from the love to the lightning, and the lack of it snaps me in two

Farrier is so fucked.

Collins hasn’t returned to their flat in six days. Six.

Since their fight last Friday, Farrier has tried calling him fifty-four times. It’s equally embarrassing and devastating to see that number next to Collins’s name in his call list. Not a single one of them answered. Even after the weekend is over, even when Farrier knows he must be back in London from his Cornwall trip with Alex by now, Collins does not bother picking up his phone.

He's ignoring him.

Christ, he’s ghosting him.

Farrier has truly fucked this up monumentally, hasn’t he?

On Thursday, almost an entire week after the debacle, just as he’s beginning to think that it’s all hopeless, that Collins is being a stubborn mule as usual and will probably never forgive him, his phone suddenly rings, the music of his ringtone cutting through his altogether too-quiet living room. Farrier jumps towards where it’s sitting on his couch table and doesn’t even bother to check what name is displayed on the screen. He can feel it’s him; it’s almost like a sixth sense.

‘Jack?’

Dear Lord, he sounds like such a mess. So pathetic.

‘Can we talk?’ Collins asks without preamble on the other side of the line. Something about his tone feels unfamiliar, and a cold shiver runs down Farrier’s spine. Cold. Yes, that’s it. That’s how Collins’s voice sounds.

Trying to ignore the sinking feeling inside his chest, Farrier nods in rapid succession before he remembers that Collins can’t see him. ‘Yes, yes, of course, listen, I’m so sorry, Jack, I—’

‘I’m coming over.’

The call disconnects.

The calming breath he draws in does nothing to calm him. A feeling of dread climbs up inside him and rises all the way into his throat. Despite Collins telling him last week that they were over, Farrier has not believed it, not even for one second, until this moment.

But every last moron knows what ‘we need to talk’ means …

He shakes his head. No. Stop it. Not helpful to think that way.

He tries Reframing, the psychological tool he’d learnt in preparation for his last tour: It’ll be fine. Maybe this can be a chance for them to talk through the stuff they’ve avoided during the last years of their relationship. Farrier will explain his position, in a calm, mature way. Collins will understand, and then they are going to reconcile, the same way they always do whenever they have a fight. Maybe even have filthy make-up sex.

That doesn’t sound so bad.

Half an hour later, with Collins actually standing there on the other side of his living room, with arms crossed in front of his chest, Farrier does begin to doubt this optimistic outlook, though.

Collins looks just as miserable as Farrier has felt all week, unshaven and with dark rings under his eyes. Farrier wonders if he looks the same – he hasn’t even once glanced into a mirror in the last days.

‘So?’ Collins asks, giving him nothing to work with other than the brow he raises.

‘I’m sorry.’ Farrier settles on the sofa at a safe distance, far enough away to give Collins some space. ‘I’m an arsehole. I should have told you.’ He breaks off and corrects, ‘No, I shouldn’t have gone in the first place.’

To Farrier’s astonishment, Collins lets out a sigh and deflates immediately, dropping his aggressive stance. ‘Let me guess. Your mother?’

‘She sort of emotionally blackmailed me into going.’

‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Collins plops down onto the couch next to him like a sack of potatoes. Now he just looks weary, like he’s sick of fighting, sick of being angry.

Farrier can relate.

‘It’s no excuse. I should have told her to shove it.’

‘Aye, you should have,’ Collins says with a dry smirk. ‘But I get it, in a way. She’s your mother. It’s easier said than done.’

‘Yeah, that woman knows how to get what she wants. But like I said, it’s not an excuse. I’m not trying to defend myself here. You have every right to be mad. I fucked up. I never should have gone to the ball.’

‘I’m not mad about the bloody ball, Tom.’ Collins leans back against the sofa. ‘I’m mad that you lied and went behind my back. And I am pissed off that you took a fucking woman, like I’m just a coat rack in the background or something.’ He lets out a snort. ‘Or your boy toy. Whatever in the world made you think bringing her was a good idea? How would you feel if I did that?’

‘Well,’ Farrier says carefully, ‘I suppose I wouldn’t mind too much, because—’

‘Because you know I’m not interested in women, yeah.’ Collins sits up straight with tensed shoulders, obviously irritated again. Farrier can’t shake the nagging feeling that this conversation isn’t going as planned. ‘Fine, Mr Bisexual, another man, then?’

A hot wave of jealousy flushes through Farrier at the thought. It must show on his face, too, because Collins throws him a pointed look.

‘Exactly,’ he mutters under his breath.

‘Jack, I’m so sorry, okay? Will you please forgive me? I need to know that we’re okay.’

An overwhelming sense of ache and tension spreads through Farrier’s chest – he means it, with all his heart. Now more than ever. He can’t—

Not without knowing they’ll be all right.

In case …

God, he so desperately needs to fix this. And soon.

Before.

Just in case he never makes it back.

Collins rubs over his eyes. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then he drops his hand limply to his side again. ‘I’m not going backwards. You know how much I love you, and it kills me to say this, but … there’s no way I’m going to put up with that. It’s fine if you’re not comfortable coming out to your mother and I would never force you, but—I don’t want that, for me. I’m past that stage. I’m not going to sit around here, hiding in our flat while you’re taking slags with fake tits and diamond necklaces out on fancy events. I refuse to be your little secret anymore.’ He raises his chin and meets Farrier’s gaze full-on. ‘I thought I’d be fine waiting around for you to tell your family, but this whole thing made me realise that I’m not.’

Is it possible to hear hearts break? There is his answer. Collins is not going to wait for him.

This is the worst possible moment and he knows it, but he can’t lie, and he can’t pretend, not anymore, not when that’s the whole reason they’re in this mess in the first place.

Time to put all the cards on the table.

‘I’m going back, Jack.’

Fuck. He’s done it – he’s said it. He’d procrastinated this for weeks, months even, always thinking there would be enough time. But there isn’t. Not anymore.

‘What?’ Collins’s eyes drill into him and for a moment it’s obvious he genuinely has no idea what Farrier is talking about.

But Farrier knows Collins. He’s a smart guy.

Not long now …

The meaning must be written all over Farrier’s face too, because, exactly as he had predicted, after the blink of an eye, Collins’s eyes bulge out and he emits a gasp like he’s choking on air.

‘No.’

‘I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while—’

‘You’re joking,’ Collins cuts him off, wide-eyed. His face has turned impossibly pale within just a few seconds. In all the years he’s known him, Farrier has never seen him so shocked, not even last week during the whole ball incident. ‘Please tell me you’re messing with me right now.’

‘No.’ The word cuts through the space between them like a knife. ‘No, I’m not. I’m going back to Syria in two weeks.’

‘You bastard!’ Collins jumps to his feet, yelling the words.

Farrier flinches and braces himself.

‘You fucking—’

*

‘—bastard.’

Farrier doesn’t even get a chance to open his mouth to ask what it is he’d done this time before Collins slams into him. Not having expected it, he staggers backwards and his arse hits the sideboard leaning against the wall of the dark hallway Collins has dragged him into. They’re still in the farmhouse, but upstairs now, and alone again for the first time since coming to the church ceremony.

For two whole seconds, Farrier thinks Collins is about to punch him in the face.

Then, the other’s mouth crashes into his, the force of the impact so strong that it causes their teeth to smash together.

Oh bloody fuck. This is happening.

Farrier’s mind is reeling like he’s got whiplash, and not just due to the collision of their heads.

Oblivious to that – or simply ignoring it – Collins bites harshly into his bottom lip and all Farrier can do in return is exhale a husky groan into the space between Collins’s parted lips. He still feels frozen, paralysed, sluggish. It all seems too good to be true.

Is he dreaming? This has to be a dream. There’s no way any of this is real.

But the warmth of Collins’s body against his own is oozing through the fabric of his suit, and the glorious sight before him doesn’t vanish into thin air, and Farrier also isn’t awakened by the alarm clock in the bedroom of his too-empty flat. The sharp but delicious pain in his lip when Collins pulls it between his teeth feels pretty real too. 

Finally, instinct takes over. One of Farrier’s hands moves up to Collins’s hair and slides into it, forming a tight fist around golden strands. The other sneaks to the collar of Collins’s white shirt and yanks him closer by it. Collins’s reaction is a sharp exhale against his face, and hot breath brushes over Farrier’s lips.

Now Farrier knows that this has to be real, because he’s tried to remember this exact sound and the feeling of Collins’s hair between his fingers many a night while lying alone and restless in his bed in the London flat, but the memory had only got blurrier and blurrier in his head with each passing day, every rotation of the earth a reminder that time is taking him further away from a past where Collins was still his.

That’s how Farrier knows his imagination would not be sufficient to make any of this up.

‘You win, okay?’ Collins hisses breathlessly. ‘You can stop it with the steely-blue stares, and the dinner suits, and the whole crawling up my family’s arses. And don’t even get me started on the fucking piano-playing!’

That prompts Farrier’s fucked-up brain to churn back to life. With a groan, he pulls Collins’s head back by his hair, which makes the other man let out a little huff, hairpulling always having been one of his favourite kinks. Collins’s cheeks are flushed red, and his eyes are so blue they’re only one shade away from being black, and he looks so fucking gone already. It takes every last bit of self-control Farrier possesses not to tear his shirt apart at the seams and rip it off him, hoist up that insolent, damned, sexy kilt over Collins’s hips, and bend him over the sideboard right here and there.

Two years. Two lengthy, agonising years have passed since he last had him.

How had he managed to survive that?

‘Really? That’s what did it?’ He can’t hide his smirk at Collins’s barely audible whimper when he drags his teeth from Collins’s lips to his neck to place kisses there too. ‘The piano?’

How does he make his voice sound so calm and confident? Farrier himself couldn’t say. Internally, it feels like he’s been set on fire. And it’s all because of Collins; he has done this. Collins has thrown the match and now he’s burning.

It does make sense. That’s what he’s been doing since the beginning. This, right here, is what it’s always been like, loving him. Farrier is powerless against it. It’s all-consuming and inevitable.

It’s time to show him, too.

Pushing Collins back by his shoulders, Farrier brings one hand down to undo the top button of Collins’s shirt. Then he spins them around so that this time it’s Collins who is half sitting, half leaning over the sideboard. To Farrier’s surprise, Collins parts his legs willingly for him to stand in between and reaches out to grasp a fistful of the fabric of Farrier’s suit to haul him closer by it again. Farrier allows himself to be dragged right into the next heated, open-mouthed kiss. The sideboard creaks and groans loudly under their combined weight when he leans forward, but Farrier couldn’t give less of a fuck if somebody hears them.

Collins tastes of whiskey when Farrier invades his mouth, licking over his teeth, and for a split second, he wonders if Collins is perhaps too drunk for this, too drunk to know what’s good for him. Maybe he should be the bigger man here and stop this …

But then Collins mutters, ‘Fuck you, you utter bastard,’ against his lips and the tension in Farrier’s shoulders melts away. That’s his Jack. If he can still insult him like this, he must be in full possession of his mental faculties. Farrier would have been more worried if Collins had started calling him pet names all of a sudden.

‘You knew the piano would do it,’ Collins adds with a snarl, then goes back to gasping for air when Farrier moves off to nibble at his jaw instead. ‘You fucking knew, so don’t act all innocent now. You planned this.’

The honest truth is that Farrier hadn’t. He’d not even realised that Collins was there watching him until he’d looked up from the keys and seen him among his little audience. But fuck, if it hadn’t shaken his world, that look. When had Collins last looked at him like that? Without contempt? Without hurt in his eyes?

Only admiration? Lust?

Or perhaps … with love?

Fine, maybe he’s getting ahead of himself here, but it’s far too easy to get carried away when Collins is grinding his lower body against his cock in a steady roll like this, when he’s panting so hard into his mouth. Those two sensations combined are enough to make even more blood rush down Farrier’s body and pool in his groin area.

He crowds Collins farther against the sideboard before pushing one hand under his thigh to lift it up slightly and aligning his own clothed erection with Collins’s. The movement causes Collins’s legs to spread wider and imprisons him between Farrier’s body and the piece of furniture behind him. The shift of their hips rubs their pelvises together with delicious, torturous friction and they both moan wantonly into the kiss.

‘If I’d known you’d react like this, I would have brought out the piano much sooner.’ Farrier chuckles into Collins’s ear and allows him to take the lead – Collins’s left hand has moved straight down to the forefront of Farrier’s suit trousers. He draws in a sharp hiss when Collins cups his cock through the thick fabric and begins kneading him.

‘Oh, fuck.’

He rolls his head back and bends Collins’s body farther over the sideboard, forcing him to arch his back even more until he’s almost horizontal; a bit lower and his shoulder blades would be touching the wooden top. The only thing holding him up at this point is his grip on Farrier’s shoulders, as well as the arm Farrier has slung around his torso to keep him in place.

Collins’s bare knees brush against the sides of Farrier’s hips when his kilt rucks up due to their shameless rutting. One of his legs is half wrapped around Farrier’s thigh.

He looks positively sinful, like a debauched angel in the throes of passion. Farrier can’t take his eyes off him.

Good Christ, if anyone walked in on them right now …

‘All you’ve done since I got into your car yesterday has been to wind me up,’ Collins hisses through his teeth against Farrier’s ear. ‘The piano is only the pinnacle. It’s only fair I get some reimbursement.’

It’s almost impossible to think straight while Collins’s hand is tossing him off through his trousers.

‘Reimbursement, huh?’ he manages a couple of heaving breaths later, and it comes out like a low growl. ‘What did you have in mind?’

‘I literally don’t bloody care.’ Collins digs his nails into Farrier’s back when the latter rolls his hips right into Collins’s cock. ‘Do something.’

With a dark groan, Farrier yanks Collins’s hand off him and pins it to the sideboard next to him. ‘You want something?’

In the past, Collins would have started begging and pleading with him right about now, all pliant and submissive.

Okay, granted, perhaps not all pliant. Potentially, he also would have called him a bastard again, but in a far more desperate voice than usual. With his hands clutching the sheets and his hips writhing off the bed – or whatever other flat surface Farrier had decided to rail him on top of this time.

Now, however, Collins does none of that, only raises an eyebrow, like a challenge, like he’s asking him to figure it out for himself, and fuck, if that doesn’t make Farrier even harder.

Still, he decides to give him what he wants because he’s too desperate himself to drag this out for too long. This has been two years in the making – no fantasies could compare. His hand wanders under the kilt and trails up the inside of Collins’s naked thigh, because of course he’s not wearing anything underneath it, because he’s the real deal and this kilt is not some cheap knock-off carnival costume, it’s his heritage, and that somehow makes it all even hotter.

Farrier must have seriously missed out in the past, because how have they never done this before? Their love life had never once been boring, far from it, but this just feels like a missed opportunity. This bloody thing was sitting in Collins’s closet the whole time, ready to come out to play.

That was also the only thought on Farrier’s mind earlier too, his mouth dry as the desert when Collins had waltzed into the church wearing his kilt instead of Ewan’s suit. He must have changed his outfit at the last minute, after Farrier had already set off to the ceremony on his own.

Safe to say that Farrier had been shook by the sight.

Back in the present, his fingertips brush lightly over the underside of Collins’s cock. Collins’s eyes roll back to the ceiling before he squeezes them shut altogether.

‘Fuck.’

‘Is this “something”?’ Farrier muses as he brings his whole hand around the base, gripping Collins’s whole length, and starts to move his fist slowly back to the tip.

Collins’s eyes fly open again abruptly and he pushes himself upright, then hauls Farrier closer by his shirt collar. For the umpteenth time within the last minutes, their mouths crash together, and Collins kisses him senseless with too much force and too much teeth. Like he’s drowning all over again and Farrier is that breath of air he so desperately needs.

Since Farrier doesn’t feel any differently, he’s not about to complain. He’s so fucking lost in the man he loves. This is all of his dreams coming true.

His hand rapidly pumps up and down Collins’s cock, and he revels in the moans that spill through Collins’s parted lips with every jerk, every slight alteration of his wrist. Still, Collins is digging his upper teeth into his lip to stifle some of the louder noises he otherwise would be making, and Farrier dislikes the necessity of it. It’s not great, being reminded that they have to keep it down, that they can’t fully let go and be lost in each other.

Suddenly he wishes they had more time, more privacy. It seems cruel that their first time in two years has to be here, in a public place, when all Farrier longs for it is to hear Collins lose every ounce of self-restraint and succumb to his desire, be as loud and as uninhibited as he pleases. Farrier wants to watch him unravel underneath him, all spread out and keen and sweaty in his arms. 

Hell, he wants to be inside him.

Maybe later. This is not the time and place. 

‘Fuck,’ Collins hisses through his teeth again, directly followed by a muffled moan against Farrier’s shoulder.

‘Are you close?’

‘Aye.’ Collins groans when Farrier speeds up his hand. This has gone on long enough – they are pushing their luck enough as it is.

Just as that thought enters his mind, he tears his eyes away from Collins’s glassy eyes and sweaty blond hair for the first time in minutes to check the door.

And freezes.

Ewan’s aghast, blown-wide eyes stare back at him from the doorway, at the far side of the hallway. His jaw gapes open in shock. He can’t have been standing there for long, because one of his hands still hangs in the air halfway between the doorknob and his side, and his body looks like it’s still in motion.

‘Farrier,’ Collins growls at that moment and Farrier blinks when he realises he’s stopped the movement of his hand. ‘I swear to God, if you’re not going to get me off right now—’

Over Collins’s shoulder, Farrier can see a muscle in Ewan’s face twitch.

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. This is so petty, so beneath him, and Collins will kill him if he …

Sod it.

Ignoring his inner angels’ best efforts to stop him, Farrier leans forward and licks over Collins’s neck, before he sucks the skin below his jaw between his lips and sinks his teeth in. The audible gasp that leaves Collins’s throat is satisfying. Not just to his own ears and ego, but also because Ewan must have heard it too. 

Never breaking eye contact with Ewan, who is still staring at him like a deer in the headlights, Farrier pulls back and leaves a half-moon-shaped love bite imprinted on Collins’s skin.

Then he lets his mouth hover above Collins’s ear, and slowly drags his hand over his cock again. ‘Oh, sorry. Did you say you need me to get you off?’

Collins’s only reply is another growl and Farrier’s lips curl into a satisfied smirk as he speeds up his hand again.

It’s a good thing that Ewan is standing on the other end of the corridor – which puts him face-to-face with Farrier – while the sideboard Collins is pressed up against makes sure he is sort of hidden from Ewan’s view. From his position at the door, Ewan can only see Collins’s back. Since Collins is still fully clothed, that means all Ewan gets is a semi-good look at the back of his white shirt and blond mop of hair.

Good. Farrier would hate if Ewan caught a glimpse of Collins’ face or body while he’s looking like this. Flushed, stunning, breathless, overwhelmed with pleasure.

That sight, if Collins so chooses, should be for Farrier alone to relish from now on. Ewan isn’t entitled to it.

‘Why did you change earlier, Jack?’ Farrier whispers, loud enough to be sure it carries. ‘Why did you decide to not wear Ewan’s suit?’

Collins rolls his eyes – which Ewan fortunately can’t see – but still moans when Farrier flicks his wrist again. ‘You know why, dickhead. Do you really need me to say it?’

‘Because I asked you not to?’

Why is Ewan still here? Farrier wonders. Does he need to see more? Does he need to watch me fuck him over this bloody sideboard to get the hint?

Perhaps it’s comparable to watching a train wreck. No matter how wrong and painful it is, no matter how much it rips one apart on the inside, it’s also sort of impossible not to look. There is a terrifying beauty to powerful, voyeuristic spectacles.

It’s a truth that has been engraved in Farrier’s mind since he first watched a fighter aircraft flypast in London as a boy.

‘Maybe,’ Collins manages, voice almost a whine. That’s when Farrier realises he must be pretty damn close to the edge. ‘Maybe I still care what you think after all.’

Time to finish Ewan off. ‘Am I the reason? Are you wearing this kilt for me, Jack?’

‘Argh, fine, aye! I’m wearing the bloody thing for you, you smug bastard. Happy now?’

More than happy.

Satisfied with that confession, Farrier raises an eyebrow at Ewan. Had enough?

He also mouths, Now piss off. For good measure.

That seems to shake Ewan from his stupor, because his head jerks back before he forcefully drags his eyes away from them. Still, for half a second, Farrier anticipates he’s going to come over here and beat the shit out of him.

He’s welcome to try.

Instead, Ewan deflates, face pale, and finally storms off with nothing more than another murderous glance in Farrier’s direction.

Of course he doesn’t bother holding the door to the hallway open upon his exit, so it slams shut loudly.

‘What—’ The sound makes Collins’s eyes fly open, and he rolls his head around in an attempt to get a look at the door, but his position turns out to be too awkward for it. With a reassuring hand on his face, Farrier leans in and tilts his jaw back to draw him into another kiss.

‘It’s okay,’ he breathes against Collins’s lips afterwards, relieved that it’s just the two of them again. This moment is theirs alone. Exactly as it should be. ‘Let go.’

It only takes a few more languid strokes of his hand until Collins does, coming all over Farrier’s hand and his own thighs with a stifled groan he tries to bury in the fabric of Farrier’s suit. Farrier touches him all the way through it and holds him close while he shudders through the aftershocks. All the while, their hearts are pounding against each other’s ribcages like they’ve run a marathon.

They stay in that position for a while, with Collins’s forehead resting against Farrier’s shoulder and Farrier’s face buried in Collins’s hair. Farrier scratches his nails over Collins’s scalp gently, fondling the tender skin there the same way he had last night during Collins’s nightmare, until the other’s heartbeat has slowed down.

‘Was that “something”?’ Farrier whispers then, like a smug bastard. ‘Do you feel reimbursed?’

Collins snorts against the jacket of his suit and raises his head. ‘It’s a start.’

That single sentence is enough to make Farrier’s heart speed up again. ‘Does that mean—’

‘Don’t get ahead of yourself.’ But there is a grin on Collins’s face and a spark in his eyes. ‘Now let me take care of you.’

Before Farrier can protest – which would have been rather half-heartedly anyway because, Christ, he is rock-hard – Collins has already shoved him back against the wall and is in the process of undoing the flies of his trousers.

He pries Farrier’s lips apart with his own and slips his tongue between them in a passionate kiss that leaves them both panting again.

‘You don’t have to,’ Farrier says when he withdraws a little to let them breathe, resting his head back against the wall. ‘I’m the one who needs to make amends.’

‘Aye, you do.’ Collins gives a deep laugh. His teeth graze first over Farrier’s jaw and then pull at his earlobe. ‘But I’m not to be outdone by an Englishman.’

It’s the last thing he says before going down on his knees.

Pretty much Farrier’s only thought for some time after that is, Thank God for Collins’s stubbornness.

*

Curse Collins’s stubbornness!

It’s the second last thing on his mind before he touches down on enemy territory.

The last one is: He’s going to kill me if I die.

*

‘I’m going to kill you if he’s dead, you fucking twat!’

Farrier shoves Ewan against the wall with so much force that his ears must be ringing from the impact. Ewan grapples with him, fighting against his grip to get free, but Farrier is more muscular than him, much stronger. He slams him into the concrete once more for good measure and hears his teeth click together with a clenching sound.

‘Let go of me!’ Ewan yells. His cheeks are burning with both indignation and anger. He looks as furious as Farrier feels. ‘What the fuck is your problem?’

‘What the fuck is my problem? Did you actually just say that to me?’’ Farrier shakes him hard. ‘My problem? What do you think my problem is, Williams?’

‘I didn’t do anything! It wasn’t my fault!’

‘That’s right, you fucking bastard, you did nothing! Nothing, while he was—’ Farrier breaks off, unable to finish that sentence.

Then, he sniffs the air between them and grimaces in disgust. Ewan flinches and tries to jerk his head away, but Farrier’s grip on his lapels hasn’t loosened one bit.

‘That was after!’ Ewan’s odorous breath burns in Farrier’s nostrils. ‘It was one drink, and it was after!’

‘I don’t believe you. You can hardly walk straight.’ Farrier finally lets him go and steps back, patting down his uniform jacket like Ewan’s hands have left dirt there that he needs to get rid of. ‘If he’s gone—’

‘What, you think you’re the only one who cares?’ Ewan shouts. ‘You think you’re the only one who gives a shit about Jack? You think just because you’ve fucked him a couple of times he belongs to you? He’s been my best mate forever—’

Farrier ignores his words and draws closer like a wild animal going in for the kill. ‘If he’ – his voice almost breaks again, and he can barely even bring himself to say it because the sheer concept is still an impossibility – ‘if he’s gone, then you’re dead.’

‘You arrogant prick!’ Ewan shoves him backwards. ‘Acting all high and mighty, like you’ve never made a mistake in your whole stuck-up, aristocratic life! It was one time, Thomas, and it was a weak moment! That doesn’t mean that I’m—’

‘That you’re unfit for active duty?’ Farrier wants to kill him. It takes everything he has to keep his fists at his side. ‘I think today is enough proof of that. What else needs to happen? I’ve watched this long enough. I’m not going to cover for your worthless arse any longer. You have a problem, man.’

Ewan’s face goes pale. ‘I swear to God, Farrier, if you even think about—’

‘Canfield needs to know.’ Farrier spits onto the floor next to him. ‘You can’t be trusted with anybody’s life.’

Fuck.

It’s too late, though.

The damage is already done.

Farrier hates himself for not doing it sooner. He’s going to hate himself for the rest of his life, if—

‘No, no. Tom, please, don’t!’ Ewan takes a step towards him and collapses, sinking to his knees on the floor. He starts bawling.

Farrier can only stare at him. First with disgust, fury, perhaps even hatred.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ Ewan sobs and slams his fist against the wall. ‘I love him, you know that. If he’s dead, I’ll never be able to forgive myself—'

Mechanically, Farrier reaches down and grabs Ewan by the fabric of his uniform, pulling him to his feet again. The man looks so pathetic that it’s impossible not to feel a wisp of pity for him, no matter how furious he is.

‘Get a hold of yourself,’ he barks roughly, though in truth he knows exactly how Ewan is feeling.

When he releases his grip, Ewan staggers back and almost doubles over.

‘What can I do? What can I do, there must be something, I’ll do anything, I’ll go out there again and—’

‘And murder your next wingmate?’ Farrier roars, voice echoing off the walls. Finally, it feels like he’s losing it. It was bound to happen eventually. ‘You’re not going anywhere, you stupid prick, never again! Don’t you get it? I’ll make sure you’ll never see the inside of a cockpit again! Your career in the RAF is over.’ He draws in a deep inhale in an attempt to calm himself, but it doesn’t do any good. ‘There’s nothing you can do. Neither of us can. We just have to stand down and wait.’

Wait and pray. Just as Canfield had said.

It kills him.

No, actually, it feels like he’s dead already. At least this right here, taking it out on Ewan … it makes him feel something, even if it’s hatred and disgust. It’s a million times better than the helplessness. Better than sitting on his arse and doing nothing.

While Collins—

‘I swear I didn’t even drink anything before we flew out today, I—’

Farrier punches him in the nose before he can finish that sentence.

Then, when that feels good, he does it a second time. By the time he drops his fist to his side again, blood is dripping down Ewan’s face – his nose must be broken; Farrier has heard it crack.

Feeling slightly better, he steps back.

‘Don’t talk to me again. Pack your things. You’re done.’

He turns to walk away, ignoring Ewan’s pathetic mixture of drunken sobs and insults behind him.

‘I don’t get why Jack—’ Ewan starts to scream when he’s almost reached the door.

Farrier spins on his heels. ‘Don’t say his name, you pathetic little piece of shit! Think I’m all talk? I meant what I said! Right now, you’d better get down on your knees again and pray they find him, because if they don’t—’ At that, he can feel his own eyes begin to prick and he swallows. His throat is raw from the shouting. ‘Let’s just say, dishonourable discharge will be the least of your worries.’

The last thing he hears Ewan scream after him before he slams the door shut behind him and kicks the wall, is ‘What—’

*

‘—the fuck?’ Collins’s voice still sounds wrecked, even while saying that single short sentence. Hah. ‘What’s his problem?’

They’ve just stepped through the tall double doors at the entrance of the barn. As he follows Collins’s eyes, Farrier sees Ewan rush out through a second exit on the other side.

He gives a noncommittal shrug. ‘He is probably mad at you for bringing me.’

‘For the last time: I did not bring you. This isn’t a date in any shape or form.’

Yeah. Farrier has to turn his face to hide his grin. That’s my boy. Stubborn as a mule.

‘No but all jokes aside …’ He can’t seem to help himself. It feels too good, rubbing it in. ‘I think he must be mad that you’re not wearing his suit. He’s miffed about you wearing this for me.’

To punctuate his words, his fingers stroke over the dark green tartan of Collins’s kilt, a little above the curve of his arse.

‘Not here,’ Collins hisses through his teeth in a barely audible volume. The implication rings sweetly in Farrier’s ears, despite Collins’s threat – not here, but somewhere else.

Potentially.

Farrier’s only response is another shrug and a smirk. Still, he leaves his hand where it is, and Collins makes no move to remove it.

‘Fine. I’ll bite. Would you please tell me why you are being such a smug bastard about this?’ Collins asks and turns to face him. ‘Why do you hate him so much?’

Out of an old instinct, Farrier’s fists clench. It’s something he’s never talked to Collins about, and probably never will. All memories of that day are sheer agony. He tends to push them back to the darkest recesses of his mind whenever they threaten to drift up to the surface. He’s not proud of the man he was during those dreadful, life-altering fourteen hours of waiting three years ago.

Instead, he chooses evasion. ‘Oh, y’know. Petty jealousy. He was your first kiss.’

Collins stares at him blankly for a second, then starts guffawing. ‘We were thirteen. And it wasn’t even good. He had braces and terrible acne. Not that I looked much better, then. Besides, we were just messing around. It’s not like he was my gay awakening or anything.’

But you were his, Farrier thinks but refrains from saying that out loud.

‘Still.’

Collins throws him another incredulous yet mildly amused look. Fortunately, he seems to sense that Farrier is not willing to say any more about the subject, because he decides to let it go.

The wedding celebrations appear to be reaching their natural conclusion. The bride and groom are nowhere to be seen, and even their immediate families and closest friends look ready to call it a night. Farrier yawns too, suddenly realising how heavy with exhaustion he feels himself. It must be close to three a.m., and he didn’t get much sleep last night.

And today … it’s been a long day too, filled to the brink with emotional whiplash. Almost like Farrier’s had more feelings within the last thirty-six hours than he’s had in the last two years combined. Like a veil of grey, monotone numbness has been lifted off his eyes, and the world has colours again.

Blue. Golden. Ivory. The only colours he sees.

The only ones he wants to see.

Before he gets the chance to come up with something to say – which, given his current state of exhaustion, likely would have either been a dirty joke or a terribly cheesy love confession – someone pushes between them from behind and grabs both of their shoulders with a firm grip.

‘You’ve got to be joking, lads!’ a very drunk Alex shouts into their ears, voice so loud they both instinctively try to flinch away. They’re unable to, though, because Alex has taken a hold of both of their shirt collars and keeps them in place like they’re naughty schoolboys.

Unfortunately, all of this means that Farrier has to finally remove his hand from Collins’s arse.

‘Please tell me this isn’t what it looks like, gentlemen,’ Alex adds in a mercifully much lower volume.

To Farrier’s amusement, Collins looks flustered while his eyes drift across the room in search of an escape route. Farrier can’t help but feel a bit smug again, though he knows better than to show it. He bets Collins wishes now he’d listened to him about what he’d said earlier, back in the hallway on the upstairs level of the farmhouse.

*

‘Let’s get out of here. Just the two of us.’ Farrier tucks himself back into his trousers, then straightens his own suit jacket and collar before pulling Collins back up to his feet and into a kiss. The taste of himself in Collins’s mouth, which would have normally made him cringe, doesn’t bother him too much this time.

After a moment, Collins withdraws again. He hasn’t fully recovered from all the work he’d done during the last minutes; his bright blue eyes are still glossy and he’s rather breathless. 

‘Have you gone mad? Did I actually blow your brains out? We can’t just leave.’

‘Why the hell not?’

‘There’s a wedding going on. And my entire family’s here.’

‘So?’

‘“So”?’ Collins repeats, like it’s the most outrageous thing he’s ever heard. ‘If I’m suddenly gone, what do you think they’re going to believe?’

Farrier grins. ‘That you’re off somewhere with me, having the best orgasms of your whole life?’

‘No, you silly sod,’ Collins shoots back, but there’s no real bite in his voice for once, ‘they’ll think you’ve murdered me or something. Do you know how common that is? Angered men killing their ex-lovers? Happens all the bloody time.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, forgive my asking but’ – Farrier raises a brow – ‘I was under the impression that this just now meant we’re current lovers.’

‘I haven’t decided yet. Maybe. Potentially. I’ll think about it.’

Collins runs a hand through his golden strands, which are messed up beyond all standards of decency. Farrier takes full responsibility for that, since it’s his hands who have done most of this damage to Collins’s gorgeous hair, but he can’t bring himself to feel guilty about that. It had felt too good.

He extends his hand to help Collins save it, trying to make it look somewhat presentable again, but Collins only slaps his hand away.

‘Quit it. I’ll do it. You’re only going to make it worse. You did this in the first place.’

Farrier grins while he eyes the love bite he’s left on Collins’s neck. He’s probably done for as soon as Collins notices that. ‘I’m sorry about that.’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘No, I’m not.’ He leans in for another kiss, mind still reeling from the realisation that he can. He’s allowed to. For now.

Good Christ, it seems he’s actually done it. The impossible undertaking, the final quest, the ultimate video game boss – changing Jack Collins’s mind about something.

Potentially.

‘Jesus, Jack,’ he’d whispered when he’d finally withdrawn from the other’s lips, ‘you look so fucked.’

*

‘You guys look so fucked.’ Alex’s voice cuts through his thoughts and unpleasantly catapults him back into the present.

‘Shut up, Alex,’ both Collins and Farrier say in unison.

Alex bursts out laughing, ignoring them. ‘Seriously, did you two just crawl out of a haystack?’ He waggles his eyebrows at them suggestively. ‘Get it? Because we’re on a farm! “Haystack”! Oh, come on, you guys—’

‘We get it, Alex. You’re hilarious. You’re a jester. You’re a comedian. You’re a regular John Mulaney.’ Farrier sighs. ‘Would you kindly piss off now so I can ask Collins to dance with me?’

Both the other men’s heads jerk around to face him at precisely the same time.

‘What?’ Collins asks, perplexed.

‘Christ,’ Alex says, horrified. Then his eyes swivel to Collins. ‘I gather from this you’ve told him that the boyfriend was a lie?’

Obviously trying to hide his embarrassment, Collins gives an undignified snort. ‘He sort of knew that anyway.’

‘Of course he did. Who’d want to date a tosser like you?’ Alex ruffles through Collins’s hair, destroying all of the blond’s previous, hard-won efforts. ‘I must admit, I was getting a bit bored of all those texts last night. “I told Farrier you’re on business in Leeds,” “I told Farrier I have a boyfriend”, “I told Farrier you told me about Ibiza”.’

Farrier can’t bite back a low, amused chuckle that causes Alex to turn to him.

‘Ah, I wouldn’t be laughing if I were you, mate.’ Alex grins meanly and Farrier’s smirk instantly dies on his lips. ‘“What is Collins up to these days, Alex?,” “Oh my God, he rang me! Do you think my voice sounds sexy, Alex?” “How am I going survive an eight-hour car ride next to Collins without getting a massive boner, Alex?”’

‘I would like to make perfectly clear that I did not say that.’

Still, he kind of wants to murder Alex.

But when his eyes land on Collins’s face and he sees only amusement there instead of new walls, Farrier can’t help but break a smile too.

‘That’s a shame. Your voice does sound kind of sexy,’ Collins says with a shrug.

‘Yours sounds fucked, mate,’ Alex chimes in, completely oblivious, before he gets a thousand-yard-stare, and his eyes widen. ‘Oh my God! Ugh, ugh, ugh. That’s disgusting.’ He quickly holds up his hands and adds, ‘Not because you’re two blokes! I support you! I’m just saying, because you’re, y’know, my mates. The details of what exactly you’ve been up to don’t concern me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for you, but … get a room next time, will you?’

‘Alex, my dear,’ Farrier says in a dulcet voice and rests his hand gingerly on Alex’s shoulder, leaning in closely.

‘“Shut up”?’ Alex provides.

‘You guessed it. Well, the first part. The second was “you wanker”.’ Grinning, Farrier then turns to Collins and extends a hand. ‘Dance with me? Please?’

For one long, awful moment he thinks Collins is going to say no. His hand is suspended in the air halfway between them, and Collins is staring at it like it’s an engagement ring. And maybe that’s exactly what it is. Maybe Collins feels it too – that certainty, that sense of inevitability. If he takes that hand … then that is it. Because there is no chance in hell that Farrier is going to let him slip through his fingers again.

‘Only if you promise not to step on my toes.’

Farrier smiles. Collins's eyes are on him, drilling into his very soul. Don’t hurt me, they say. Don’t you dare leave again.

‘I won’t.’

*

‘I won’t.’ Farrier spits out the words like an insult. ‘I won’t give you a single thing, you fucker.’

He braces himself, and rightly so – another hit follows, this time straight into his stomach. He lets out a wheeze and doubles over, as best he can with his wrists chained to the ceiling.

Fuck.

Three days. Three days with very little water, no food at all. Three days of burning, aching muscles and torture.

Why the fuck had he not turned around when he’d had the chance? Was it really worth it?

But Farrier can’t bring himself to regret it, not even now, not even in his current position. It was the right thing to do, not abandoning the first-aid convoy. The people down there had been depending on him to be their guardian angel, watching over them from above.

Because that’s his job. That’s what he’s always going to do, in every universe, in any life.

No matter the consequences.

His fuel gauge had taken a bit of a knock from their anti-aircraft artillery earlier on that sortie. With hindsight, he’s now convinced his tank must have taken a couple of hits too. Otherwise it would have been enough to get back. It should have been, under normal circumstances.

It wasn’t.

Thus his current predicament.

Another kick in the same place, right into his solar plexus. Farrier dry heaves, thinking he’s about to throw up stomach acid. Maybe pass out too. There must be dark spots clouding his vision, but he can’t see a damn thing behind the black hood anyway. Another wave of terror floods his veins. If he throws up under this thing …

The man steps closer. In his head, Farrier has named them all – this one is called ‘Dickhead’. His English is stilted, which Farrier had gathered from the few words – usually administered between the torture sections of the day – the man had spoken to him since his capture. It’s only ever been this guy – Dickhead – who had talked to him. The others must speak even less English.

‘We need nothing information. We want nothing of you,’ Dickhead drawls. ‘Only your life. Your head. Next week, with sword we cut off your head.’ He lets out a dark chuckle that forces an icy shiver down Farrier’s back, despite the heat.

‘And we make sure England will watch.’

*

He’s as nervous as if the whole country were watching.

Is he going to trip over his feet? Is he going to step on Collins’s toes after all, despite his promise?

It’s ridiculous, because this isn’t the first time. They have gone dancing before. They have even danced at multiple weddings. Sure, Farrier had not come out in all of his social circles, but that was mostly his family, just the conservative upper-class society. Most other people – all of his real friends, certainly – knew about them back in the day. The vast majority of people had been supportive.

So he’s danced with Collins at weddings before, even at Alice’s wedding, but …

‘Are you actually nervous?’ Collins is grinning, an eyebrow raised when he turns to face him. ‘That’s a first, Mr Rich-Businessman.’

‘Shut up.’ Farrier pulls him closer by his shirt. ‘It’s been a while.’

‘Was there no music on that Yacht in Ibiza?’ Collins teases.

Farrier puts his hands on his hips and smiles when he hears Collins’s breathing speed up.

‘Oh, there was. But my dancing lessons didn’t cover Eminem and Beyoncé.’

 ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re not joking about the dancing lessons?’

Collins moves closer until their chests are touching, and intertwines his fingers with Farrier’s. Fittingly, a slow song starts playing as soon as they begin to move. Apart from them, there aren’t many other couples on the dancefloor at this hour, only two or three other pairs. The party is drawing its last breath.

‘That could be because I’m not.’

‘Let me guess,’ Collins murmurs, ‘the focus was on ballroom dancing?’

In mock surprise, Farrier places a hand over his chest. ‘Are you a fortune teller? How did you know?’

‘It figures.’

For a beautiful, drawn-out moment, all they do is move back and forth to the rhythm of the music, swaying from side to side, and the tension slowly but surely drains from Farrier’s body. There is no reason to be nervous. This is where he was always meant to be, in Collins’s arms, wrapped tight around him, engulfed in his smell, his aura. Collins’s heartbeat thumps against his chest and it’s a reminder that they’re both here, both alive, against all odds.

‘I told my mother I’m in love with you.’

Collins withdraws a little to look at him, wide-eyed. ‘You did? When?’

‘On that phone call this morning.’ He yawns again and corrects, ‘Yesterday, I mean.’

‘Ah. So that’s why she hung up on you. I was sort of wondering about that.’

‘But I don’t care anymore. I don’t give a fuck what she thinks. If she can’t accept that I’m in love with a man—’  

He breaks off, suddenly wondering if this is too much. If he’s overdoing it again with the indirect love confessions.

But Collins only heaves a sigh, which also turns into a yawn after two seconds. Now that Farrier thinks about it, Collins does look rather tired too.

‘Maybe she’ll get used to it. My dad did. He hated it too, at first.’

‘My family is not like yours. And my mum… she’s bad at apologising. She’s not going to, for this.’

‘Your mother loves you, Tom, in her own way. She may suck at showing it, but she does.’ He squeezes Farrier’s hand once before letting go and wrapping both his arms around Farrier’s neck instead, drawing him closer. ‘It’s impossible not to.’

God. Are hearts supposed to beat this fast? Has his mouth always felt so dry?

‘I love you,’ he says.

It’s long overdue. Yes, he’d said it last night, but that doesn’t count because Collins’s answer had been a ‘no’ at the time – now, it at least seems to be a ‘maybe’.

Collins breathes in a warm breath against his hair and hums, but doesn’t say it back, only snuggles up against him even more.

Farrier is pretty okay with that too. He can wait.

He has time.

What a beautiful realisation that is.

Over Collins’s shoulder, Farrier makes out Alice and Campbell in one of the sitting areas across the room, watching them from a safe distance. When their eyes connect, the corners of Alice’s mouth twist upwards into a wide smile. She gives him a thumbs-up, mouthing something Farrier interprets as ‘Well done’.

Farrier grins back. Well done, indeed. But then, he has always been nothing if not determined; this was bound to happen eventually, no matter how dire the odds may have appeared on occasion. They were always going to find their way back to each other.

As he lets his gaze drift farther over tables and chairs, it lands on Collins’s mother, who is also watching them. She, too, is smiling at him. Then she even winks.

Those little signs of approval from Collins’s two best girls, paired with the feeling of Collins’s body in his arms, are enough to make Farrier feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Strangely optimistic too, like a rainstorm has passed and he once more has a bright, rekindled future ahead of him. Collins may be right. Maybe his own mother will come around too, given time.

Either way, it’s a comfort to know he has the support of his in-laws, at least.

Farrier still prays they never ever find out about all the things he’s – God willing – planning to do to their precious boy once he isn’t feeling so bloody tired anymore.

He leans in to tell Collins as much, which earns him a blush and the title of a ‘smug bastard’ again.

It’s so worth it.

Chapter Text

5.

everyone is lonely sometimes, but I would walk a thousand miles to see your eyes

Collins is on a South Western train into London when Alex tells him.

It’s a rainy Monday evening in April, and he is on the way to the clinic for his fortnightly meetings. They seem to help, a little. Knowing that he’s not alone, that he’s not the only one experiencing panic attacks makes him feel better. The others may not fully understand what he went through, and vice versa – given that it’s a mixed group – but he’s starting to see the odd truth in the old proverb, ‘A sorrow shared is a sorrow halved’.

Other than him, it’s alcoholics, victims of domestic violence, one ex-con. There is only one other ex-soldier, and he’s much older than Collins. Two tours. Afghanistan. During the last meeting two weeks ago, the man had described his nightmares for the first time.

They’re very different from Collins’s. No water. No claustrophobia. Only machine guns, sand, ambushes.

So far, Collins has not shared his own story with the group. He doesn’t think he’s going to do it today. There is a threshold to cross. Telling other people about his experience makes it real, means that he has to fully confront the memories, and he doesn’t think he’s ready for that just yet. Admitting that he’s a failure, that he’s not cut out for service in the RAF, that he wasn’t strong enough, mentally …

Despite the therapy, the nightmares have got worse during the last months.

Alex, in his typical way, picks the worst possible time to break the story. The only good thing that can be said about the incident is that he is at least somewhat more tactful than usual while he’s doing it.

‘Jack, have you heard?’

An elderly woman with thick librarian glasses and a little dog on her lap throws Collins a pointed look and taps the sign mounted on the wall of the compartment with the handle of her walking stick. Quiet Zone. Under it is another sign that shows a smartphone surrounded by a crossed-out red circle. With emphasis, she taps that too.

Collins stifles the urge to roll his eyes. Some people are so petty.

‘Have I heard what?’ he whispers back into his phone and turns away from the lady.

‘Oh, fuck. You don’t know.’

Something about Alex’s voice sounds different than usual – for once there is no humour in it. Collins’s blood freezes in his veins because he somehow knows exactly what this means.

Oh god. Oh god, no. He’s going to be sick.

‘Know what? Alex? Know what?’

‘It’s not that, Jack,’ Alex rushes to say. ‘He’s alive.’

Somehow, that little sentence does nothing to reassure him. There is a ‘but’ missing and it is suspended in the minuscule gap of air between his ear and phone. Something awful has happened. Exactly the sort of thing Collins had warned him about when he’d pleaded with him not to go, when he’d begged him to stay, to not leave him here, to not do this, to not go where he couldn’t follow.

Because Collins couldn’t. He couldn’t go back there. He values his own life too much, especially since knowing what it feels like to nearly lose it.

He’s not a bloody hero, like Farrier. He doesn’t give a shit about his legacy – he just wants to live.

Almost drowning had managed to fuck up his mental state pretty good, it’s safe to say.

The RAF medic at the airbase had confirmed that self-assessment during his mandatory monthly psych evaluation at the time.

To this day, nobody knows that Collins had asked to be discharged.

‘Alex, you fucking wanker, if you don’t tell me right away what—’

As he looks up, he sees that the woman with the dog is gaping at him with huge eyes. So are the other people around him.

This time, Collins doesn’t give a fuck.

Alex starts talking, saying random words in random order. Words that Collins has never heard anybody use and combine in an actual conversation up to this point, only in movies or TV series.

Fuel gauge. Captured. Kidnapped. Tortured.

Decapitation.

The lady with the dog says, through the fog over his senses, ‘Are you quite all right, dear?’

His knees give out after the first few of Alex’s sentences. The phone slips through his fingers, hits the floor. The impact turns the speakers on. Still, through the blood pounding in his ears, he doesn’t hear the rest, even when the other people in the train compartment gasp.

Rescued. Home.

He finds those things out later.

Right now, the world is black.

And that’s why Collins hates trains.

*

‘Tell me something … is there a reason why you hate trains?’

Collins jolts upright, still half asleep.

Can he read my bloody mind? He must be having a déjà-vu.

‘What?’ he stammers drowsily.

‘Oh, sorry.’ Farrier averts his eyes from the road to look at him. They’re back at the beginning, in Farrier’s car, on another eight-hour ride. On their way back to London this time. ‘Did I wake you? I didn’t even realise you were sleeping—’

‘It’s fine.’ Collins turns his face to the window and subtly rubs over his eyes, hoping Farrier doesn’t notice that they’re wet. They haven’t reached that advanced stage of their reconciliation yet where they can talk comfortably about these sorts of things. And he also doesn’t want to, not today at least. Maybe one day.

Maybe. He still owes Farrier an answer about that.

Instead, he says, ‘Must be the agoraphobia. They make me claustrophobic.’

Farrier nods thoughtfully, like he’s expected that answer. ‘You never told me you had panic attacks. When did they start? After Latakia? I remember you saying that it’s a recent thing, but—'

Any attempt at denial would be pointless. Collins knows Farrier would be able to see right through him. ‘Yeah. Since Latakia. They started just a couple of weeks after, as a matter of fact.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It’s not your fault.’

The muscles in Farrier’s shoulders tense. He stares ahead for a long moment, deep in thought, then says in an almost inaudible voice, ‘It is, though.’

Collins can do little more than stare. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘There is something I haven’t told you, Jack.’

And so Farrier tells him. The whole story takes more than half an hour, during which Collins says very little and the words spill out of Farrier like he’s desperate to get them off his chest. Collins has never heard him speak so many sentences in a row before.

 While Farrier is talking, Collins’s mind returns to Syria. 

*

Once more, he wakes in that hospital bed and blinks his eyes open against the fluorescent light. The overhead television set is switched on and shows the BBC London Evening News, in a weak attempt to make the patients feel at home. The air smells of cleaning supplies and hand sanitiser, and an IV behind his head drips liquid into the crook of Collins’s elbow. 

Past-Farrier is there too, next to him and fast asleep with his head resting right beside Collins’s pillow, cheek pressed flat against the mattress. When Collins reaches out instinctively to touch Farrier’s dishevelled hair, he finds thick white bandages around both of his own hands. He can feel his pulse in them too, thumping unpleasantly; it’s a slow, constant ache. Are they broken? It feels like it. His throat is painfully dry too, and his lungs are burning like they’ve been set on fire.

He lets out a quiet groan. Oh fuck, he feels like shit.

That’s when it comes flooding back, all of it. The engine failure. His fucking ejection seat not working – it’s Murphy’s Law: the one time he actually would have needed the damn thing.

Having no choice but to ditch her.

Then … water. A whole lot of water. Nothing but waves and salt and exhaustion.

By the time the Syrian fishers had pulled him out of the sea, he’d nearly been dead from hypothermia.

Since then … not much. Blurry shapes. Hushed voices. Liquids and injections and warmth. More sensations than actual memories.

For a moment his mind can’t grasp the fact that he’s still alive.

I guess this is what cheating death feels like.

‘There you go,’ somebody says in a whisper and Collins looks up to find Ewan there, pushing the curtain around his bed aside. The other man steps closer until he’s standing on the other side of his bed (not the one Farrier occupies) and holds a big glass of water to his mouth, which Collins gulps down gratefully – he is parched. The cold liquid makes the burn in his sore throat subside a little.

Which feels like he’s swallowed an entire ocean.

‘Thanks.’ 

Ewan sets the empty glass down on his nightstand while Collins takes in his appearance.

Safe to say that he, too, looks like shit. And so does Farrier. They both look pretty much exactly like Collins is feeling.

What did you expect? he asks himself. You almost died. They care about you. Is that so hard to believe?

Despite it all, it’s nice to have that knowledge, that certainty to have people here in the Air Force who give a shit. People who would grieve for him if he’d died. And knowing that, at home, there are even more of them.

Home. Oh fuck.

He remembers the expression of concealed agony that had crossed his mother’s face before he’d left, during that last goodbye on that platform in Edinburgh Waverly Station seven months ago. The way Alice’s hug had nearly crushed his ribcage. The conflicting emotions in his father’s eyes – proud, yes, but also terrified for his safety.

I’ll be fine, he’d said. This is what I’m meant to be doing.

Have they told his family yet?

Collins asks Ewan, and Ewan says he doesn’t know, but that he doesn’t think anybody has. All the while, Ewan is avoiding his eyes. 

Until Collins can’t stand it anymore and hisses, ‘What’s going on? Why can’t you look at me?’

That’s when Ewan’s eyes finally do flick to his face.

‘Jack,’ he’d said, ‘there is something I need to tell you …’

*

‘Let me tell you something once and for all,’ Collins says in the present to Farrier, still trying to process everything he’s just heard. ‘You’re not responsible for every single bad thing that happens under the sun. This wasn’t your fault.’

‘I should have told Canfield. Or somebody else. I knew what he was.’

In his mind, Collins scrolls back through all of his memories of Ewan in the past years. He hadn’t seen him as much after returning home from his tour, especially since he’d relocated down to London to move in with Farrier, but … could he really be such a shitty friend that he’d missed his best mate being an alcoholic?

Bile creeps up his throat at the thought.

I’ve let him down. Had he been so stuck in his own nightmares and panic attacks and misery that he hadn’t noticed this? And it wasn’t just the PTSD that had consumed most of his attention during that time. It was happiness too. Coming down here, living with Farrier. So much bliss. 

Still, does that mean he had been a self-absorbed bastard? Losing contact with his old friends from home because he’d finally entered a committed relationship? Had he chosen his new life with Farrier over his decade-long friendship with Ewan?

Shit. He is a dick.

‘He was good at hiding it,’ Farrier says, once more reading his mind. ‘Especially from you.’

‘But you knew.’

‘Only because I stumbled upon him fucking wasted one night. Just a few hours before a sortie. After that I just started paying more attention. It’s easier to read the signs when you know what you’re looking for – otherwise, it’s hard to tell, with high-functioning alcoholics.’ He huffs. ‘I should know. My dad was one too.’

Everything makes sense now. Their animosity. Ewan drinking only Coke at the wedding. His unexpected departure from the Air Force.

As Collins stares out of the windscreen with unseeing eyes, an odd numbness spreads through his extremities. ‘Fuck. That’s why he hates you? Because you’re the one getting him discharged?’

‘I didn’t, as a matter of fact.’ Farrier runs a hand through his hair. ‘He told Canfield himself the day after you got back.’

‘I know that – or well, what he told me was that he was going home. I had no idea what the real reason for it was, though. He said he was sick of it all. You’re saying it’s because you threatened him?’

Farrier presses his lips together. ‘Yeah. Maybe. Or maybe his own conscience couldn’t deal with the knowledge that he’d endangered you. I’m not sure if I would have gone through with it, telling Canfield. If you hadn’t … Then, yeah. Then I absolutely would have done … something. He was fucking drunk that day at Latakia, Jack, on that sortie when you ditched, and I knew it before the two of you went up. I knew he wasn’t in a state to be much of a backup for you in case of an attack. But I didn’t think anything would actually happen—’

‘I got shot at, Tom,’ Collins says. ‘On a routine mission. Besides, it was an engine failure. There’s nothing he could have done.’

‘You don’t know that. There’s always something. That’s what a wingmate is for, to watch your back. To be on the guy who’s on you.’ Farrier’s hands are wrapped tight around the steering wheel. ‘I kind of lost my shit while you were missing.’

‘I understand.’

‘No, Jack,’ Farrier says, with feeling. ‘You don’t. You weren’t there. I said I’d kill him if you didn’t come back.’

Well, that does explain a lot.

Collins exhales loudly. ‘I get it, okay? You were worried and out of control for a bit. We’ve all been there. But all this, it still doesn’t mean that any of it was your fault.’

‘I should have never let him back into that cockpit after I found out. Or not let you in the air with him that day.’

‘Tom. It was our job. On occasion, our job involved getting shot at. Plus, I was negligent on that sortie – I got distracted for a second. You can’t afford a stupid mistake like that, in the air. Ewan couldn’t have done anything even if he hadn’t been drunk.  And I’m here, aren’t I?’

Farrier’s eyes land back on him. ‘Yeah, you are. Thank God for that, but no thanks to Ewan. If you hadn’t come back - I don’t know what I would have done.’

An all-too-familiar ache wells up in Collins’s stomach. He knows those feelings Farrier is describing himself, far too well. It’s how he’d felt too, after the train incident. After Alex had told him about Farrier’s rescue and his return to London.

Only the outcome of their two very different near death-experiences had varied.

After Latakia, after Collins’s ditching in the Mediterranean Sea, he and Farrier had been inseparable. In fact, that incident was precisely what had pushed them from being friends with benefits (though Collins can freely admit now that feelings had always been involved, even at that early stage) into a more serious commitment, a proper romantic relationship. To Collins’s astonishment at the time, it had been surprisingly similar to what they’d been before, only more exclusive, and perhaps more communicative.

Meanwhile, two years later, after Farrier’s return …

But Collins doesn’t want to think about that. Not right now.

Latakia is a more pleasant memory.

It was after Latakia that Farrier had first told him he loved him.

*

It’s the day after his conversation with Ewan. Collins is sitting upright in his hospital bed and reading a spy novel, shoulders propped up against two pillows. 

He still has a hard time wrapping his head around the fact that Ewan is returning home in two days. Ever since they were children, they’d done everything together, the two of them. School, university, the Air Force. Now Ewan is going to go back to Scotland without him? It feels wrong somehow, like a betrayal.

‘What are you frowning about?’

He looks up from the pages of the novel to find Farrier at the entrance of the medical wing, holding the door open with his foot while balancing a tray loaded with food on his arms.

‘Are you my nurse now?’ Collins jokes instead of answering Farrier’s question and puts his book down.

‘I ran into her in the hallway. She just wordlessly handed me this.’

That makes him grin. ‘You’re already a regular here.’

‘I have no problem admitting that.’ Farrier sets the tray down on his bedside table and drops onto his usual chair next to Collins’s bed. ‘And since we’re on the topic of admitting things …’

Collins’s heart speeds up – this is Farrier’s serious face. The next thing out of his mouth is either going to be a declaration or a confession of some sort – Collins knows him well enough to be able to predict his moods by now.

‘The last two days have made me realise something,’ Farrier says. ‘I love you, Jack.’

It was so like him to come out with it like this, without any preamble, straightforward to a fault.

That moment in the hospital is when Collins had known.

Fuck. This is the man for me.

And, despite all the pain and heartbreak, it still was, last year. Even after their argument about the ball. Even after their breakup. Even after Farrier had left for Syria.

Even after the train incident.

Only …

The end result had been a different one, last year.

*

Back to the present. The question is burning in Collins’s mind after he listens to Farrier’s story, but he swallows it down. Not today, he reminds himself. He doesn’t want to ruin what they’ve had last night, this weekend. All of his heavy stuff, it can wait.

‘Let’s talk about something else,’ he says. 

Farrier seems happy to oblige him.

So, over the next few hours of the car ride back to England, they discuss many other things: their jobs, their mutual friends in London, even mundane, neutral things like football and politics and the environment.

Collins doesn’t, however, bring up the topic of last night. And neither does Farrier.

*

The way it had happened:

Close to five a.m., the two of them had returned to the Collins’ family home. Both had been dead on their feet by that point. On his own insistence, Farrier had taken the guest bedroom, while Collins had retreated into his own old childhood bedroom – mainly so they wouldn’t have to explain themselves to Collins’s parents in the morning. 

An hour later, Collins was woken by Farrier having a nightmare – the guest bedroom of their house is right next to his, and Collins’s sleep is, contrary to public opinion, rather light in the first hours after going to bed. Mornings are the only time of day when Collins sleeps like the dead.

Alarmed by Farrier’s groans and sobs, he rushed into the guest room, unsure what to do. Somehow he’d ended up next to Farrier on the bed and held him for the next half hour, whispering reassuring words into his ears. 

The same way Farrier had held him too, the night before.

Collins just sort of … hadn’t gone back to his room afterwards. Even when Farrier’s nightmare had passed, and he was awake and warm and safe. Even when the darkness outside gave way to the morning sun.

Farrier hadn’t complained about it.

How and when they’d lost their clothes during all that … it remains a mystery.

Collins is only glad they didn’t wake his parents.

*

So that’s what they don’t talk about on the car ride back to London.

They will get the chance to do that some other time.

Maybe.

I haven’t decided yet, he’d said last night after their tryst in the hallway. I’ll think about it.

Sod it. Who is he trying to fool here? His mind is made up already. It’s time to let the past be the past – Collins is ready for the future.

Looks like his future has an eight-pack, a BMW, and an ‘Honourable’.

Once again.

He rests his elbow against the car door panel and turns his chin towards the window so Farrier doesn’t see his smirk.

*

Half an hour before they reach London, Farrier’s iPhone rings in its pendant mobile holder. He doesn’t glimpse at the display before he picks up and neither does Collins, who is by this point half asleep again – it’s been a long weekend.

Also, he got no sleep tonight. None, whatsoever.

‘Thomas Farrier, who is speaking?’ Farrier says, eyes firm on the road.

Collins grins when he remembers how Farrier had answered his phone with those exact same words last week when Collins had drunkenly called him from the sports bar to ask him that favour.

Thank God for my drunk self.

‘It’s me, Thomas,’ says the voice of an older lady on the other end of the line.

And just like that, Collins is sitting upright in his seat again, thunderstruck.

It’s been a while since he’d last seen her, or heard her voice. At the time she’d only ever known him as Farrier’s fellow pilot, his friend, one of his best mates. Back then she’d had no idea who he was to her son. What her son was to him.

Now, she does.

Collins feels terror rise inside him – though it’s hard to determine whether he’s more scared of what will be said during that phone call or what it’s going to unleash.

On the last one, Mrs Farrier hung up on her son. After Farrier had told her that he was in love with him. Finally. 

Chances are, the conversation between mother and son won’t run any smoother this time around.

Collins remembers those types of uncomfortable conversations from his own falling out with his dad back in the day. For an entire month after he’d come out to his parents, his only form of communication with his father had been either shouting or resentful silences. His mother and Alice had tried their best to mediate, but the two men had both been too stubborn to listen. 

Collins’s pigheadedness is not based on sheer genetic coincidence. There is an apple and tree analogy lurking somewhere. 

‘Hi, Mum.’ Farrier exchanges a quick glance with Collins, for once oblivious to the other’s inner terror, then looks at the display with a frown. ‘How are you?’

‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ his mother says, in that tone, and Collins thinks he’s about to throw hands, because he can feel that something is about to happen.

And he’s so bloody sick of it.

What the fuck is going on today? Scratch that, not just today, but this entire weekend? Is there anything else that can go wrong?

And then she says them, the words that throw Collins’s world off its axis.

‘I threw away the letter.’

*

Is Farrier going to throw it away? he wonders as he stands in front of the red post box in his street in Battersea.

The thought is unbearable, but this is not the first time he’s had it. For hours, he’d agonised over the exact words to put down on the page while this and similar thoughts had flitted through his mind. Seven crumpled first drafts lie in his wastepaper basket underneath his desk. Even two different envelopes, one of them addressed to ‘The Honourable Thomas William Albert Farrier’. Collins had laughed at himself after writing that one. Before he’d ripped it apart in a million tiny pieces and thrown it away.

The envelope he holds between his fingers now only says ‘Thomas Farrier’. It suits him better, and always has. It’s the Farrier Collins wants.

Is Farrier going to call him after reading this?

He’d considered stopping by Farrier’s flat too, the way all their other friends had after they’d been summoned. Alex had been the one to start the visitations, in the first week after Farrier’s return to London. The others had followed suit. Greg, Brad, Tommy, Pete. Collins is sure that Liz is there at Farrier’s flat all the time too, making sure Farrier has everything he needs, whether he wants it or not. Collins is grateful to her for that.

In the end, he’d still decided on the letter. Alex had told him that Farrier was still a bit rattled. Understandable, after the ordeal he’d been through. ‘Rattled’ was likely an understatement. 

So Collins figures it is for the best, this way.

This way, it’s up to Farrier whether he wants to see him.

He throws the letter into the post box with trembling fingers and walks away.

*

‘What letter?’ Farrier frowns at the phone, unaware that Collins is in the middle of having a heart attack next to him.

This is not real.

‘His letter,’ Mrs Farrier says in her nasal, aristocratic tone. ‘He sent it a few weeks after you’d returned from Syria.’

‘His—?’ Farrier’s eyes widen and his head jerks around. ‘You’re talking about … Jack?’

Collins wants to die. He wants to open the car door and roll out, onto the motorway, at full speed. 

‘Yes,’ his mother says. ‘Him.’

Farrier seems incapable of forming words any longer. His mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out. Then,

‘And you threw it away?’

Collins is sure Mrs Farrier must be flinching on the other side of the line, because he is too. Never before has he heard Farrier yell at his mother like this. He’s quite certain Farrier never has. Hell, Collins has never heard him yell at anybody like this. The man’s default frames of mind are ‘Cool-headed’ and ‘Composed’. It’s why he is such a skilled pilot, such an excellent leader. It’s why Collins had fallen in love with him in the first place, back then. 

The way they were balancing each other out. Collins, the hotheaded one and Farrier, who was imperturbable. Only when it came to emotions, of course. Not in the air, where it was reversed sometimes. Sure, Farrier was level-headed there too, but also more reckless than Collins. More willing to sacrifice everything, perhaps. 

‘Well,’ Mrs Farrier says, pulling Collins from his thoughts, ‘it was a mistake. I shouldn’t have done that. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision.’

Collins gawps at the phone because those are the last words he would have expected her to say. 

‘How—why—’ Farrier stammers. Another car honks at him and he’s forced to drag his eyes from Collins back to the road – he’d crossed over into the overtaking line without looking. Collins’s left hand shoots up to clench around the grab handles on the roof so hard that his knuckles turn white. Fortunately, Farrier manages to even out the steering wheel smoothly. 

‘It was forwarded to me … after your move.’ Mrs Farrier at least has the decency to sound abashed, but that’s little consolation.

Collins still can’t believe any of this is happening.

‘Did you read it?’ Farrier barks into the phone.

No reply from the other end.

‘Did you read it, mother?’

‘Yes, I did,’ she says then, her voice subdued. ‘ I read it.’

Collins’s hand moves down again, to the interior door handle. It would be so easy. Just pull and push and roll out—

He’s never felt so mortified before.

Farrier’s mother had read his letter.

Somebody put him out of his misery.

That’s when she really gets started. ‘I know you used to think you were being so subtle, that I had no idea what was going on, that I’m old and stupid, but I knew all along, I knew what he was to you, I knew you were living with him, and God knows what other unholy things the two of you were up to in that nest of sin, and he must have seduced you into it because this is not what my son does, that’s not my Thomas, and—’

Collins now does sort of understand what Farrier had meant about his mother. Jesus, she sucks at apologies.

‘—I was not going to stand by and watch while you were sullying our family’s legacy, just because you couldn’t keep it in your pants, and with another man, no less—'

‘Mother,’ Farrier cuts in. ‘Shut up.’

And then he hangs up on her.

The silence that stretches out between them is unbearable. Collins thinks he’s going to choke on it, on all that air he suddenly doesn’t seem to have anymore.

‘You sent me a letter,’ Farrier says.

‘You didn’t read it,’ Collins says.

They go back to gawking at each other. Farrier’s eyes occasionally flick back to the road.

‘That’s why you’re so mad at me,’ he says. ‘Why you didn’t call me when I got back.’

‘Aye, well you didn’t call me either! I was trying to give you space! After everything that had happened to you, I was sure reconciliation with an old lover was the last thing on your mind!’ Collins’s voice is shaking, and he swallows. ‘And Alex told me that you’d called up all your friends after your return, but you didn’t—you didn’t call me.’

‘Because I thought you didn’t want to see me! You said you weren’t going to wait for me!’

‘I was talking about the coming-out thing! When I said that I had no idea that you were going back there!’

‘Does it matter? You told me that it wasn’t going to work between us under these circumstances!’

They’re both half-yelling at this point. Collins runs a shaking hand through his hair.

Next to him, Farrier sucks a steadying breath through his nose. In a much calmer voice, he says, ’What did it say?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Your letter.’ Farrier’s eyes are on him again, much calmer now. ‘What did it say?’

Heat creeps into Collins’s cheeks and he averts his eyes. ‘Doesn’t matter. It was nothing.’

He can’t say it. Good Lord, it’s all so embarrassing. He’d written Farrier a fucking love letter, and his bloody mother had read it – before getting rid of it so that Farrier wouldn’t sully the sodding family legacy.

Can this situation get any worse?

‘If it was nothing, why is my mother feeling guilty about throwing it away?’

Collins shrugs and clenches his jaw, body still trembling all over.

‘Jack.’ Suddenly, Farrier’s hand is on his arm, and he squeezes gently, reassuringly. ‘It’s okay. You can tell me.’

‘It doesn’t matter what it said, because you didn’t read it!’ Collins hisses. By now he feels like he’s about to lose it too.

‘Yeah, well.’ Farrier gestures at the phone as an explanation. ‘You heard her.’

That’s when the magnitude of this reveal finally smacks Collins in the face.

Farrier hadn’t replied because he hadn’t got his letter. 

This past year Collins had been pissed off about something Farrier hadn’t even known about.

‘I thought you didn’t want to—’ he forces out ‘—all this time I thought you didn’t—’

‘Want to see you?’ Farrier whispers, wide-eyed. ‘Jesus, Jack. I must have dialled your number a hundred times over the last year.’ He pulls a grimace. ‘Even there, while chained to the bloody ceiling and half-starved to death and pissing myself at the prospect of getting my head cut off, the only thing keeping me together was planning how I would get back here and beg you to take me back.’

Collins holds his breath. This is the first time Farrier has talked to him about what had happened to him over there. And he already knows all the details, of course, from other people, but hearing Farrier say it out loud makes it so much more inevitable.

‘Fuck,’ he murmurs and finally looks away. ‘Fuck, Tom.’

Right now, his vocabulary doesn’t contain any better words to describe how he’s feeling.

They’ve reached London. Since it’s Sunday evening, the traffic is much more bearable than on their outward journey. Farrier is focused on the streets in front of him, the only signs of his inner distress being the paleness of his face and the popped-out vein on the side of his head. Meanwhile, Collins buries his nails in his palms – he feels so unstrung that he thinks he needs to hit something, shout, to let it all out.

The latter preferably while having some serious words with Farrier’s mother.

Only when they’re driving through a street in Chelsea does Collins suddenly realise he has no idea where they’re going.

‘Eh—do you …’ He breaks off, biting his tongue. ‘Should I—take the train back to Woking, then?’

‘What?’ Farrier asks, shaken out of his thoughts. He glances at his GPS, then at Collins, then back on the road. ‘Oh! Shit, sorry, I completely forgot you don’t live in Battersea anymore.’

‘Aye, well, it’s pretty bloody expensive, living here in the city.’

‘Of course. I understand.’

He really doesn’t, but Collins doesn’t say that out loud.

At that moment, he has another realisation: he also has no idea where Farrier lives now – since he seems to have moved out of his – their – former flat after returning to England.

‘It’s fine, you can just drop me off at Victoria station. I can catch the tube to Waterloo. Or Clapham.’

‘Or you could—’

‘Could what?’ Collins’s heartbeat is in his ears.

‘Come back to mine,’ Farrier offers quietly. ‘If—if you want.’

Shit, does he want to?

Collins feels like he’d felt yesterday when Farrier had extended his hand and asked him to dance – like he’s making a decision, like everything depends on his reaction, his answer.

‘You could … tell me more about that letter.’ Farrier reverses into a parking space. This time, it doesn’t bother Collins that Farrier’s hand lands on the back of his headrest while he turns to look out the back window. ‘You don’t have to, obviously, but since I never got the chance to read it, I don’t think I have all the information here.’

Have all the information? Is he serious?

Jesus.

‘Could you be any more English?’ Collins asks.

That’s all it takes; the tension between them dissolves and they burst out laughing.

‘Fine,’ Collins hears himself say after a moment, still smiling. ‘I’ll tell you what it said.’

‘Yeah?’

Farrier is giving him that look again. Like he can see straight into his soul. Like he’s something precious, something that needs to be treasured. It’s the type of look that makes him tremble with anticipation, with desire, but something else too. Something more profound, and much more permanent.

‘Eh—why are you parking here, by the way?’ he asks to distract himself from his racing heartbeat. They’re parked in a side street in Chelsea, close to Albert Bridge. A steady drizzle has started falling from the sky. ‘I told you I’m not living in my old flat anymore.’

‘This is my street.’ Farrier looks rather flustered all of a sudden. ‘That’s my new flat up there.’

Oh.

‘Do I even need to ask why your new flat is just across the river from my old one?’

‘I don’t know.’ The corner of Farrier’s mouth twists into a smile. ‘Do you?’

Collins blinks while he processes this information. The only thing he can think of to say is, ‘Christ, what’s wrong with picking up a damn phone and ringing people?’

‘You tell me, Mr I-Wrote-You-A-Letter-Instead-Of-Calling.’ Farrier’s voice is soft yet amused ‘But I will. I’ve got your phone number memorised, remember?’

‘I remember.’ Collins’s heart is thumping against his ribcage. ‘Do you promise?’

For a long moment, Farrier does nothing but look at him, his steely blue eyes as loving and intense as they've always been.

‘Aye,’ he says then.

Yes. Always. Forever.

It’s how Collins had ended the bloody letter, too.

Chapter Text

  Epilogue

On Monday morning, after Dan has unlocked the door, he walks into the kitchen to make himself a strong, hot cup of coffee. With it in hand, he returns and sits down at his computer, switching on the monitor. As usual, the first thing he does is check the e-mails.

One catches his eye immediately.

It’s from his boss. The subject is ‘ We need to do better’.

This can’t be good.

With shaking fingers, Dan brings the mouse up and clicks on the e-mail. A new window pops up.

His boss had sent the damn e-mail at one a.m. on Sunday night, which makes Dan roll his eyes, despite his pounding heart – the man needs to get a life.

There are no actual words at the beginning of the e-mail, only an attached screenshot.

It’s of a one-star Google review by a twat called ‘FighterAceJC’ (Seriously, who the fuck uses a stupid nickname like that for their private Google account? Just use your name, for heaven’s sake!) completely trashing the Travelodge. The usual complaints are all there: lousy service, dreadful hygiene, shitty wireless reception.

Secretly, Dan sort of agrees with the person, but it still makes his blood boil.

One sentence, in particular, captures his attention.

‘And of course there was only one room, one bed – I had to sleep on the fucking floor ! My back will never recover!’

Now Dan thinks he knows who’d written the review – must have been one of the two blokes who’d waltzed in on Friday night. He checks the date of the comment, and it fits: Saturday morning.

Christ. ‘FighterAceJC’ couldn’t even wait till check-out.

That upsets him because he’d genuinely tried to help them, for fuck’s sake! It’s not his bloody fault that the Fringe is happening and they’re fully booked!

The arseholes should have booked in advance.

He wonders briefly whether it was the handsome bloke with the leather jacket or the blond one who had written the review, but can’t decide. Both of them had looked obnoxious enough to call themselves ‘FighterAceJC’ on the internet, for sure.

If he had to pick, his money would be on the blond guy.

Dan scrolls down and finds that his boss has attached a link to the review. ‘Make sure to reply to him from our account and beg for forgiveness. Crawl up his arse for all I care!’

Dan is so going to quit.

Unfortunately, until then, Dan is left with no other option than to do his boss’s bidding. With a groan, he clicks on the link.

And gets an error page. He tries clicking on it again, with the same result.

Next, he tries it manually, logging into their business account. He scrolls down the review page, but there are none that have been left on Saturday.

Had the bloke actually deleted it already without getting a reply?

Who does that?

As his eyes drift up, he finds one other recent review, left this morning at six a.m. by a ‘Thomas Farrier’.

Hold on, what ? This is one of the two blokes. Dan knows that for sure, because Thomas Farrier had to give him his name to book the room.

It’s a five-star review.

It only contains one word.

Cheers.

Dan stares at it for two whole minutes, trying to make sense of it.

Customers are so fucking weird.