8 Toby

So I guess I'm expecting somebody like Laurie. Or somebody sort of teachery. Or maybe somebody sort of grandfathery, since I think academics are supposed to be old.

What I'm not expecting is a guy slumped in an armchair wearing a pair of grey silk boxers and drinking something that's probably brandy straight from one of those crystal decanter things they have in costume dramas.

And Laurie is all, "Hello, Jasper," like this is normal.

Oxford, man. Fucking nuts.1

He stares at us a moment, totally not freaking out that he's sitting there practically naked. "Oh. Laurie. And your plus-one. I didn't know pederasty was a vice of yours."

Laurie has his stern face on. "My vices are both well documented and none of your business. This is my… This is Toby."

My Toby? I can live with that.

Jasper gives me this sort of pale, graceful hand, limply palm down, like I'm supposed to bow over it and kiss it. Which I'm totally not doing, so I ignore it. "Uh. Hi."

"Delighted, I'm sure, Tobias."

I scowl. It takes a special kind of wanker to call you something that isn't the name they've been given. "It's Toby. And it's not Tobias, it's Tobermory, actually."

I hate my name. Words cannot express how much I hate my name. But right now I'm really fucking pleased my mum's a nutcase so that when he says, Ah, like the city, or maybe, Ah, like the whisky, I can be all smug and, Actually no.

He's looking at me again, which is when I realise he's wearing glasses as well as underwear. I don't know if that makes it worse or better. And, finally, what he says is, "‘Here and there among cats one comes across an outstanding superior intellect, just as one does among the ruck of human beings, and when I made the acquaintance of Tobermory a week ago I saw at once that I was in contact with a "Beyond-cat" of extraordinary intelligence.'"

Which kind of takes the wind out of my sails because it means he gets it. Gets a little piece of me. Some bloke I'm not sure I'd trust to open a can of beans. But that's when he smiles at me, and it's like he's totally delighted, and weirdly, I feel okay again.

"Am I missing something?" asks Laurie.

"Only something sublime, darling. Go back to your skulls and your stethoscopes." Jasper's diction is a bit too perfect, the way you only get when you're a Beyond-drunk of (probably) extraordinary intelligence. "You know, Toby, if I was called Tobermory, I would never let anyone call me anything else."2

All my instincts are screaming at me that I'm in the presence of a complete arse-pot, but when he's looking at me and smiling at me like that, I feel like the centre of an amazing, shiny universe. My mum does that sometimes. It scares me that some people have that much power, and half the time they don't even care.

I don't really notice until I've done it, but I've gone and stuck my hand in Laurie's, like an idiot. I'm totally expecting him to pull away, but he doesn't. Just closes his fingers tightly round me like he's never letting me go. It's only his universe I really want to be part of, and I think he's telling me it's okay. He's not going to leave me floating in the cosmos of someone else's random charm.

Jasper leans forward. He's really pretty. Not hot like Laurie is hot, but if he walked past me in the street, my head would totally turn. The truth is, I love Laurie to bits, and I can't imagine wanting to look at anybody more than I want to look at him, but he's not a head-turner. He's a magnet to me, but I think if I wasn't me, I wouldn't give him a second glance. Not that he's a minger or anything, but Jasper is…something else.

He's younger too, but I'm not good at guessing that stuff, so I don't know by how much. Kind of this English rose of a man, all porcelain and soft pinks, greeny-brown eyes and shiny brown hair, like something out of an old portrait. I get an impression of height from him, but he's not muscular at all. He's just bone and skin and elegance. And now I'm taking in the view, I see there are nail marks and bite marks and red blotches fading all over him.

And my not-gaydar suddenly does its little ping.

"May I call you Tobermory?" he asks.

Of course I say yes. Because he's made it seem so special, like it's this secret we share. And Laurie gives my hand another squeeze, like he's telling me it's still okay. And because I trust Laurie, I relax a bit. Maybe it's safe to be just a little bit charmed by this drunk, naked…enticingly vulnerable guy.

Laurie reaches for the decanter thingy and pulls it away. Jasper makes this soft protesty noise but doesn't actually try to stop him. "You know, J, you should probably think about putting some clothes on."

"Oh, what's the point?"

"Social custom? Personal dignity? For heaven's sake, we'll be late for dinner. Where's your gown?"

"I don't know." Jasper gestures in his languid way. "Somewhere."

And Laurie makes this little growl at the back of his throat. Sexy.

Then I think…wait, gown?

"I was dressed earlier," Jasper offers. "It can't have gone far."

"For fuck's sake. Toby, help me find his clothes."

Laurie lets me go, steps back, and something crunches under his foot. He jerks away, and there's a few pieces of blue china strewn on the rug.3

Now I'm paying attention, the place is kind of trashed. It's an amazing room, vaulted ceiling, wood panelling, huge windows with velvet curtains. And books, so many fucking books, though lots of them are on the floor. There's a lot of stuff on the floor.

It looks like something seriously violent happened in here.

"Um," I ask, "did you get robbed?"

Jasper stares straight at me. "In a manner of speaking." I don't know if it's his glasses or the light or being pissed or what, but his eyes are really vivid, gold in the green and grey in the brown, all these pieces of colour.

Laurie's found some trousers and a shirt, both pretty crumpled, and he flings them over. "Where's Sherry?"

"He's gone."

"Isn't he coming tonight?"

"Not with me, he isn't. Ignorant colonial cunt."

I gasp. "Ohmygod, you don't use the c-word as an insult."

"Colonial? What else do you call Yanks with delusions of grandeur?"

"No, the other one… It's misogynistic because, like"—I try to remember what Mum says—"there's nothing inherently unpleasant, threatening, or offensive about female genitalia."

Jasper has sneery brows. They're very thin and arched, like they're designed for making you feel bad. Right now he's got one tilted at this really fucking devastating angle. "Have you actually seen one, my little eromenos? A cunt?"

I'm so cross with him I say without thinking, "Yeah, I've seen my mum's."4

Whoa. Welcome to Silence: population everyone.

"Not like personally," I add quickly. "But she paints it a lot. She's an artist."

The truth is, I'm not thrilled about the fact half the world has seen my mum's…y'know…in really intricate detail and in various stages of…jouissance, to use her word, but it's her…y'know…so I guess she's got that right. I can't really get past the fact that it's a…y'know…and my mum's…y'know…but if I try really hard I can see it's kind of…beautiful down there, sort of fantastical like a maze, in all these rich colours… Arrrgh, no, my mum, nonononononono.

Jasper's staring at me again. I think he's just worked out who my mum is. Fuck.

This is why I like Laurie so much. He has absolutely no culture. And he comes to my rescue, without even knowing I need rescuing, throwing the rest of Jasper's clothes at him and insisting he get dressed, in the same voice he uses for me when I'm being naughty.

I bet Jasper finds it hot as well. And he does actually start pulling his clothes on in this incompetent, half-arsed way. In the end, we have to help him, which he seems to kind of like, leaning against Laurie while I do up his shirt and try not to think how fucking smooth his skin is. It's like he was made to be hurt.

He's drunk like nobody I've ever seen before. Like you wouldn't know he was drunk…except he is, if that makes sense. Drunk in this deep, cold, empty way.

I'd feel sorry for him, except it's too confusing.

As soon as he's semi-dressed, he sinks back into the chair like there's not a single bone in his body.

Laurie dangles a white bow tie at me. "Better you than me."

I sigh. It's true. I don't want to watch Laurie butcher a bow tie again. But I also don't want to get up close and personal with Jasper. In case…well…because I might like it.

I try various non–embarrassing positions, like leaning over him or going round the back of the chair, but they don't work at all. And even though he doesn't say anything, I can feel mockery gathering inside him, like he's going to wait for the worst possible moment and then be all Oh, don't bother.

Well, fuck that. I climb into his lap.

"You'd better let me," he drawls. "If this is the best you can do, we'll be here all night."

"Toby, what the hell are you doing?" That's Laurie. He sounds seriously ticked off. "Get off him."

I ignore both of them—because I am tying this bad boy, I am tying it now, and I am tying it right—grab Jasper by his choirboy curls, fling the bow tie round his neck, and tie it. Perfectly. I tie it fucking perfectly.

Then I disembark the good ship HMS Inebriated Wanker, and I hit the remote I've got tucked in my jacket pocket because I am peeved with Laurie and his little What the hell are you doing? routine and…also because I want him to know that there's only him, only him for me, and that's the only way I have to tell him.

He takes a sharp breath. His shoulders tighten, his hands clench, and he frowns. But he's kind of a tight and frowny man, so I don't think anyone would notice a change but me. It's so fucking hot. Because I know behind his careful posture and his calm(ish) expression, he's suffering—pleasure and embarrassment both—and that there's part of him that hates it and a part of him that loves it, and none of it matters anyway because he's doing it for me. It's like I'm touching him, right now, in the most intimate possible way.

And oh fuck. Don't get a boner, Toby. Do not.

When I decide to have mercy on him, he glances my way very briefly, all soft and kissable and sorry and mine.

Good.

He clears his throat. "Come on, J. Time to go."

Jasper doesn't move. "I don't want to."

"Because of Sherry?"

"I don't want to see him." He leans back in his chair and drapes a wrist over his forehead like he's dying of consumption. I didn't think people actually did that. He looks pretty and silly at the same time, a bit of his inside wrist exposed under his shirt cuffs. I'm kind of fascinated by how blue his veins are.5

"What's he done this time?" demands Laurie. No sympathy whatsoever.

Jasper mumbles something.

"What?"

"He. Published. A. Paper."

"That's his job."

"Yes, but—" Jasper shifts forward and curls slowly in on himself like a wilty flower. "But it's brilliant," he finishes in this voice of utter despair. "It's so…clever and engaging and insightful and…original. So fucking bloody original. The bastard. I hate him." Then, very softly, "I admire him."

"You're in love with him," growls Laurie. "And you have been since he took the top first at prelims."

"Which should have been mine."

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Laurie grabs his arm and hauls him upright. Jasper sways in this willowy way for a moment, and then he's rock steady. "Buck up, you dick. And, anyway, you invited him."

Jasper nods sadly. "I wanted to…to…congratulate him."

Laurie and I sort of exchange Looks. Mine says, I love you. I can't read his, but I decide it says, I'm so glad you're basically normal, apart from wanting to put things up my arse.

"I congratulated him very intensely. Several times." Jasper sighs, and for a moment he genuinely looks confused and kind of hurt as well. "And then I couldn't stand the sight of him. He was just so…so…beautiful. He gleamed. How dare he fucking gleam?"

I glance round at the carnage. "So then you had a massive fight?"

He blinks. "Fight?"

For a moment I'm confused by his confusion. And then I get it and…Jesus.

Wow. That's Olympic-standard fucking.

Laurie's got hold of what looks like an opera cloak and is pulling Jasper's arms through it and muttering under his breath. Finally, he steps back. "That'll have to do."

I can't help staring. Everything's changed now Jasper's got his clothes on. He looks like he was born to stand around in a suit, a white bow tie, and a cape, austere and monochrome and all untouchable, like the grass.

As soon as we leave his rooms, Jasper's a completely different person, leading us briskly down the stairs and across the quad, his shoes resounding on the flagstones and his cape thing flapping behind him. I've barely known him half an hour and I've got so much emotional whiplash it's a wonder my head hasn't fallen off.

But then Laurie takes my hand. Voluntarily. And it turns out that's all I need to be stupidly happy.

We end up in the SCR, which stands for Senior Common Room, and believe me there's nothing common about it. It's sort of half library, half how you imagine a super-exclusive gentlemen's club might look (like, not the strip-joint sort): books, oak panelling, antique furniture, red leather armchairs by the actual, real fire fire. It's not just another world; it's another fucking century. It's full of people—mainly men but there's some women too—about half of them dressed like Jasper in the robes or whatever. And there's this table where there's glasses of champagne laid out for people to just have, like at a wedding.

I make a beeline for it, tugging Laurie along behind me.

He's frowning—in his worried way, not his angry way. So cute. "Toby, there's going to be a lot of drinking tonight. Try and pace yourself."

"But champagne. Free champagne."

Jasper makes this sound that I think is a laugh he's trying to pretend is a cough. "Tobermory has the makings of an academic."

Yeah, except for the whole going to-university part."Not my thing."

"Agreed." Laurie hesitates for a moment, then takes a glass for himself and chinks it lightly against mine, making them both sing.

I smile at him like a goofball because I love him so much, just for touching our two glasses of champagne together like that. Our. Us.

"It's much better to know an academic," he's saying, "and then you get to experience all the advantages of academia—like free champagne—with none of the disadvantages. Like being an academic."

"Excuse me, I think you've got"—Jasper leans forward and brushes a finger against the corner of Laurie's mouth—"a touch of smug on you there."

Laurie just shrugs. But he's a little bit pink, and his lips are twitchy like he wants to smile.

"Urgh." Jasper shudders in this gay, theatrical kind of way. "What have you done to him, Tobermory? I recognise that soupy-eyed look. You've only gone and made him happy, haven't you?"

Wow. For a moment I just stare at Jasper, overwhelmed by the gift he's given me so carelessly. I'd barely have believed it before today, but he's right. I do make Laurie happy. He's given me that power too. And, what's more, other people can see it. See that we're right together. I'm so ridiculously thrilled that I have to downplay it. "Yeah. Is that a crime?"

"Not at all. I'm just"—he sighs, and I can't tell if he's playacting or not—"terribly, terribly jealous."

Before I can answer, we get sucked into the whole posh-people-party thing, and I lose track of all the names and faces, and which names belong to which faces, in about three seconds flat. But it's okay because Laurie knows some of these people, and Jasper knows nearly everyone, so I just stand there chuffing champagne and smiling like an idiot. I briefly meet the president. Not like of the United States, of the college. He calls Laurie "Laurence," which makes him sound like an alien I've never met, and afterwards he looks all flustered.

Eventually, though, we settle into a corner by one of those big, big windows, and I stare down into the cloisters, feeling like a king. Jasper's on his third glass of champagne. I'm still on one because I genuinely don't want to embarrass myself or Laurie.

It's good shit though, whatever they're serving. Sweet and dry and sort of buttery soft and filled with so many tiny bubbles I'm armoured in them. They fizz around my tongue stud, and I desperately want to kiss Laurie like this, with our mouths all full of light.

Instead, I take the opportunity to buzz him, and he leans against the stonework, his fingers tightening on the stem of his glass.

God, I'm so fucking horny.

He idly puts an arm across my chest and draws me in to his body. It's so nice, because we're sort of nestled together in the window arch—me in front, Laurie holding me tight. Tight against his erection and his hard-beating heart.

He lowers his head like he's kissing my cheek, but he's actually whispering, "Behave, damn you," all unsteady into my ear.

I wriggle. Because sadist. And Laurie's arm turns vicelike.

Jasper's eyes kind of skitter away from us, like he guesses a bit of what's going on. Oops. I should probably stop.

Just in time. Because then we're hailed, an American accent cutting way too easily across the roomful of politely murmuring Brits, and this man, dressed like Jasper but in this slapdash, careless way, all his layers out of control and his bow tie skew-whiff, comes bounding over.

Jasper's whole face freezes into this awful sneer, but his eyes are kind of hot and desperate.

"Sherry." Laurie sounds genuinely happy though. "It's good to see you."

"Hiiii!" The American hugs us. Both of us, since Laurie's still not in any position to let me go. But that doesn't stop the newcomer. He just enfolds us both in these huge monkey arms and squeezes, me stuck in the middle like I'm Baby Bear.

"Uh," says Laurie, when we can all resume breathing, "this is Toby. Toby, this is Sheridan Hunter Fitzroy III."

"It's okay, laugh it up. And call me Sherry, all right?" He's staring at me like he's expecting something.

"Uh, okay."

"So, you're the new guy, huh? I've been dying to meet you!"

"Really?"

"Course! So, come on, Toby, tell me all about you!"

He kind of talks in exclamation marks, and he's…he's sort of the most golden person I've ever met. I think he's crazy hot in this clean-cut, very square-jawed way, but he's also kind of…y'know, the shiny, transparent coat you put over nail polish to stop it getting chipped or rubbing off. He's like that, but all over. And there's this generosity to him that's scary because it's like he really believes you're the best person ever, and he's madly thrilled to be with you. Except it just means that you feel like you're going to disappoint him at any second because you're not the best person ever. You're just you.

Which is exactly my problem. "Um…uh…" I really don't have a fucking clue what to say, or how to be interesting enough for him. "I'm just…"

"He's Coal's son." That's Jasper, out of nowhere.

I'm pissed he knows, even though it's my own fault he knows, but at the same time, I'm kind of relieved because now I'm irrelevant again.

Sherry's eyes go wide, so blue they're dazzling. "Seriously? Oh my God. I love her. I saw White Ink in Tokyo. Stunning."

I shrug. That's always the best answer. But there's also Laurie to lean into, and he cuddles me.

"What am I missing?" he asks.

Nothingis what I want to tell him, but then the president clinks on his glass, and I brace myself for some kind of speech, but we're just being called in to dinner.

Jasper grabs and knocks back another glass of champagne. And then we go through a little door and onto—I am not fucking kidding—the roof. There's a wooden walkway covered in chicken wire, and we all troop along it very carefully like a bunch of penguins. And all around us, the towers and walls glow in this pale and ghostly way against the night. It's completely surreal, and I'm glad I only had one glass of champagne.

Sherry's gone up ahead, so we go on either side of Jasper. He's pretty steady on his feet, but it feels safer that way. He's staring at Sherry's back like he's trying to burn a hole straight through him.

"How can you love him and be jealous of him?" I wasn't actually intending to say that aloud, but apparently I do anyway.

And Jasper actually answers. "Because if I wasn't…I'd be abject."

That makes no sense to me.

We make our way down a twisty little staircase and through a teeny tiny door, and then we're in another world. It's not a massive room, but it's seriously oak-panelled, with sort of flying buttresses across the ceiling and stained glass windows like in church. There's lamps and candles on the tables, but that's it, so it's very close to being gloomy, but the light flickers and catches on all the silverware and makes it magical instead.

We're at the back on a raised platform, and everybody else stands up as we file in. It feels really scary, and I'm so sure I'm going to fall over or do something wrong, but it's fine. Once we've all found our places—I'm safely squished between Laurie and Jasper—the president bangs a hammer on the table and rattles off something in Latin.

Then there's a screeching of chairs, and we sit down.

I must have a funny look on my face because Jasper pats my hand. "Next time, come on a Sunday and grace will be sung from the gallery."

I'm not sure I want to hear grace being sung from the gallery—my head might explode from sheer weird—but I love that he says it so casually. Like it's obvious I'm coming back.

Sherry's opposite, next to this dark-eyed, intent man who tells me his name so softly I totally miss it, and a younger guy in a really rubbish cape who looks absolutely fucking terrified to be here. I think the quiet guy is some kind of librarian and the other one is some kind of graduate student.

Jasper's pouring us water. I have at least three separate drinking glasses in front of me, and I count up four forks, so this is definitely going to be the awesome kind of dinner. Even my bread roll is delicious-looking, and there's a saucer of individual butter florets.

I totally love this shit.

I lean over to Laurie and whisper, "Thank you for bringing me."

And he gives me what Jasper calls his soupy look and whispers back, "Thank you for coming."

I spot a discreet little card hidden behind the candelabra, which I guess has to be the menu. It's gold-edged and topped off with the college crest, just like Jasper's poncy invitation.

I nudge Laurie. "Dude, listen to this: roast squash soup with toasted pumpkin seeds and crème fra?che."

"Um, yes?"

"What's wrong with you? Doesn't that sound delicious?"

He looks around at the people who are closest. "I do actually feed him."

"Anticipation is part of the pleasure."

"Of food?"

"Of any sensuous activity," purrs Jasper.

Across the way, Sherry chokes on a mouthful of water, and I kind of cheer inside for Jasper because it proves the guy isn't completely invincible.

Jasper twitches the menu out of my hand and reads it out in something that can only be called Sexy Voice. Promises of seared Cornish sea bass, roast venison loin, and apple crumble tart roll over me in a way that gets me all eager and quivery.

Yeah, I'm a glutton. I just really like food. Any food, honestly, as long as it's good—even really simple stuff like scrambled eggs and cakes. But it's sometimes nice to know you've got Calvados foam in your future. Even though I'm a bit dubious about foams in general. Sometimes they end up looking like you've spit all over the plate. Not good.

"How's your anticipation now, Tobermory?"

I cough a bit. "Yeah…it's getting…there."

"And now you know"—Sherry smiles at us—"why Jasper has a fan page on Facebook."

"Undergraduates." Jasper makes a dismissive gesture.

"They adore him. They tweet about what he's wearing and what he says. He has his own hashtag."

For a moment, I think he's taking the piss, but then I realise he's not. He likes Jasper. He just likes him, in this completely uncomplicated way. And I get a bit sad for them because it feels like that ought to make everything simple.6

Except for all the ways it isn't and doesn't.

Then a waiter slides some roast squash soup in front of me, and I cheer right up again. Because shallow. It's good soup, rich and creamy and a little bit spicy. The pumpkin seeds give it texture. Nom. All the nom.

I let the conversation drift away from me while I concentrate on the food. I think it's got nutmeg in there. Ginger definitely.

When I next look up, Jasper seems to be randomly torturing Terrified Guy by complaining in this horrifically eloquent way about DPhil students who don't do anything useful for society or humanity or the university, until Terrified Guy looks like he wants to drown himself in his soup. "Uh, what do you do, Jasper?" I ask as they're taking away the bowls, just to get him off the guy's case.7

He tosses his head haughtily. "I work primarily on historiographical writing of the High Middle Ages, in Latin, French, and English." I've no idea what that means, but I hmm intelligently. "Like Dr. Hunter," he adds in this tight little voice.

Sherry nods. "I'm writing a book on the development of English national identity in postconquest England."

"A book?" Jasper squeaks.

My mum has parties; I know how to handle conversations like this. I turn to Terrified Guy. "And what about you?"8

He mumbles something.

"Sorry, what?"

"I'm a researcher at the Department of Oncology."

"Like…cancer?"

He looks miserably at his place setting. "We're trying to better understand the molecular basis of tumour cell resistance to radiation treatments."

"Oh, wow, yeah, that sounds totally useless."

Laurie and Sherry both laugh, and Jasper drinks off an entire glass of white wine he's been given at some point. Then Laurie sort of pounces on Terrified Guy, and they end up having a really intense conversation about BKM120, perfusion CT scans, and 18-F-something-or-other PET-CT something somethings. Jasper and Sherry start getting into it over a manuscript from some monastery in St. Albans.

And I just prepare myself for seared Cornish sea bass with crab and sesame sauce.

God, yes. Bring it on.

I don't actually mind not being part of the conversation. First off, the food is nice enough it deserves my attention, and I like being able to soak up the atmosphere in peace. It's noisy because of all the wood and the clattering of plates and cutlery, but at the same time oddly intimate: little bubbles of conversation in these pools of hazy candlelight. Waiters, confusingly also in black and white, weave in and out of the shadows, keeping the wine flowing.

I'm deep into the venison loin with bacon, cabbage, chestnuts, and the butternut purée when I suddenly notice Sherry is talking to me. But what he really wants to know about is my mum and what she's doing at the moment, so I tell him about the new exhibition in the railway arch. It's kind of hard to talk about because it's called a symbol…I mean the title of the exhibition is a symbol…because that's not confusing or anything.

It's probably genius or something. But what the fuck do I know?

There's this sort of ripple going down the table now. People's heads are turning, and I hear my mum's name on strangers' lips.

Shiiiit.

"Toby?" Laurie frowns. "Is your mother someone…famous?"

Jasper sniggers into his venison.

"Lil bit, my friend," says Sherry. "Teeny lil bit."

The quiet librarian glances up. He's very pale, his eyes all shadowy in the candlelight. "She's an artist, Laurie. Sh-she's collaborating with my ex. Or they were w-when…before…" His hand tightens on his fork, and he seems to run out of words.

"Who's your ex?" I ask.

"M-Marius?"

"Oh, I remember Marius." Tall, hot, and Byronic-looking, like most of Mum's beautiful, arty young men. God. I hope they aren't fucking. "He seemed very…passionate?"

He gives me this stricken look and then stares at his plate, and I feel terrible, and I don't really know why. Then somebody else whose name I can't remember leans over Laurie. "Is it true you have three fathers?"

"Err…no." I give it a beat because I've done this a lot. "I've got five."

Laurie turns so sharply he almost puts his elbow in the butter. "What the hell?"

"It's not a big deal. My mum was sleeping with a bunch of people when she got pregnant, which was probably for the best, in a way, because she was fifteen, so nobody went to prison."

"Good God," Laurie mutters. I'm kind of worried about how he's taking this, but I've started so I have to finish.

"Anyway, a bunch of them came forward afterwards, because it was all scandalous and cool, and about five of them stuck around on a sort of irregular rotation."

"And you didn't think to get a DNA test?" I don't like the careful way Laurie says it.

"Why? I didn't care about whose spunk it was, I just wanted someone to stand up and say, ‘Me.' When I was like nine or something, I was so sick of it I called everyone together, and I was like, ‘No more part-time dads. Choose.'" I need something to do with my hands, so I take a big gulp of wine I don't want. And then I grin as I deliver the punch line. "So none of them stayed."

Afterwards I went to Granddad. Cried my eyes out. Looking back, I don't know why I was upset. I had him.

"What about your mother?" asks Laurie.

"She didn't care either way. They were all sort of friends by then, but she was basically done with them." Everyone is looking at me, all curious and eager. So I sigh and give them what they want. "She doesn't believe you should have sex more than once with the same person. Because…it'd be like photocopying a piece of art."

Laurie actually rolls his eyes. "Your mother doesn't believe in photocopiers?"

"She doesn't believe in the mechanics of mass production." I take a breath and recite in a monotone, "‘Even the most perfect reproduction of a work of art is lacking in one element: its presence in time and space, its unique existence at the place where it happens to be.'"9

So that's how I start a riot, everybody talking at once about art and the meaning of art and the nature of authenticity and all the usual shit.

Laurie isn't saying anything. I try to catch his eye, and when I do, he mouths, Who are you? at me.

I mouth back, Yours.

And we hold hands under the table until the apple-and-quince crumble tart arrives. The Calvados foam looks okay and tastes amazing. I want to lick it from Laurie's fingers.

God. Laurie and food. My two favourite things.

"And what about you, Toby?" comes Sherry's voice into my private gastric-lust haze.

"Huh?" Oh God, they better not be asking me about art, because I don't give a fuck.

"Are you an artist too?"

"Uh, no." I deploy my best duh voice. "It's not genetic."

He smiles so nicely I feel a bit of a dick for snapping. "I just thought you might've had an interest."

"No, I work in a caff."

"How terribly bohemian of you," drawls Jasper.

God. You just can't fucking win sometimes. "Yeah. Apparently the Kray twins used to throw people through the front windows way back when."

"Let me guess, by day you study the human condition, and by night you write your novel?"

"At night I see my granddad and wait for the weekend to roll round so I can be with Laurie." And now everyone looks disappointed. Well, everyone except Laurie. I sigh. "I used to want to be a poet, okay?"

"What changed your mind?"

I'm kind of losing track of who's looking and who's talking.

I shrug. "I like poetry too much."

Jasper pushes away most of his crumble tart—a serious waste, if you ask me—and pulls his wineglass closer. He rests an elbow on the table, which you're not supposed to do, and cups his chin in his hand as he looks at me with his pretty eyes and this faint, unreadable smile. "I've decided I adore you, Tobermory. Which poets do you favour?"10

He makes it easy to forget there's a whole world beyond him. "All sorts, really."

"Don't play hard to get. It doesn't suit you."

"Oh, all right. I like…the metaphysical poets, especially Donne and Marvell. And the Earl of Rochester. And Fran?ois Villon. And Byron. And Gerard Manley Hopkins."

"You like your verses rather rough and rugged."

"Like I like my men."

Laurie chokes.

"I just like it when the way it sounds is part of how it looks, y'know?"

"I do know," Jasper tells me gravely. And I think he means it.

"I like Wilfred Owen too. And Mina Loy, she's the only modernist I can stand. And Brenda Shaughnessy, and Li-Young Lee, and Eduardo C. Corral." I'm starting to feel a bit self-conscious now. Like bits of my insides are suddenly on the outside. "Oh, and Don Marquis."

Jasper laughs, but it's so gentle I'm kind of shocked. "‘Toujours gai, Archy, toujours gai.'"

I guess I lose track of the time a bit, because the next thing I know that isn't poetry or the soft rhythm of Jasper's voice is Laurie tugging at my elbow.

As we get to our feet, the rest of the room stands up as well. And it just goes to show how quickly things get normal because I don't even blink. Soon I'll be expecting people to jump up and down depending on what I do.

I can tell Laurie's tense, but I don't know why.

"The next bit is also a tradition." He sounds a bit snappy as he yanks me through the side door. "We'll all sit in a circle and drinks will be handed round. Always pour to the right and pass to the left. The drinks will be served until you don't replenish your glass, so for God's sake, remember to stop or we'll be there forever."

"Okay. Pass left. Stop drinking. Got it." I smile up at him, but he doesn't smile back.

"And I'm afraid we won't be sitting together."

"What? Why?"

"I don't know. It's just how it works."

I hope he's pissy because he's not going to be able to drink brandy and hold my hand, but I'm not sure. I don't think I've done anything to embarrass him.

We all huddle into another room—not oak-panelled for a change, but it's got a chandelier. All the chairs have been arranged in a horseshoe round the fire, and as we come in we're sort of funnelled off in different directions like passengers on the Titanic.

I really want to cling to Laurie, but I can't. I'll look like a knob.

I think it's meant to be some sort of special social alchemy thing, because I'm shown my place like it's supposed to be awesome. There's a guy already settled into the seat next to me and he shakes my hand as I sit down, telling me his name is Harrison Whitwell.

He's another American, which I could have guessed from the interchangeable first name/surname thing he's got going on. Why do they do that over there? I mean, really, why? Turns out he's a lawyer and an honorary fellow. I'm not sure what this means, but he seems pretty pleased about it. And he's wearing a different cape to everyone else—it's got some hardcore scarlet trim.

At first I'm a little bit…not shy of him, exactly, but uncertain. It's kind of scary to just be given to someone you don't know with the expectation they'll want to talk to you. Except he does want to talk to me—or, at least, he gives a very good impression of it. He's really nice, not too intense, and he seems happy he got me. He asks lots of questions, and tells a lot of stories that make me laugh. He looks after me when the decanters come round, pours out little glasses of sweet white wine and ruby-red port. I remember what Laurie told me, though. I remember to stop and I pass to the left.

The best thing, though, is when the bottles reach the far side of the horseshoe. There's actually this…machine thing that slides them back across.

The decanters rattle on the wooden rails, and I'm fascinated. "It totally boggles me that somebody actually sat down and, y'know, invented that."

His eyes twinkle at me. "Considering where we are, it doesn't surprise me at all."

We laugh and then his hand sort of drifts onto my knee. I wonder if I'm being sexually harassed, which is kind of exciting, honestly. I'm not used to thinking of myself as the sort of person someone would want to sexually harass. I guess Harris (as I'm allowed to call him) is flirting with me a bit, but in this really gentle, courtly kind of way that…I, uh, really like. I don't feel threatened at all. I just feel special. Not the same way Laurie makes me feel (sometimes anyway, when he forgets I'm not supposed to be special to him), but it's still good.

So his hand stays, and we keep talking, and the decanters go round, and the whole thing is sort of hypnotic. We talk about everything, and I kind of play up to him. He's older than Laurie, and it's not as if I've got an age-inappropriate fetish or anything—which Laurie isn't, he's just Laurie—but there's a lot about Harris I like. Confidence and warmth and interest in me.

I guess I'm kind of a total slut for that last one.

They send round fruit and chocolate as well as the booze, and near the end, a pretty box Harris flips open for me. "Snuff?"

"Oh my God, for real?" I guess that had come out louder than I meant, because there's kind of a lull in conversation.

"You want to try?"

Well. Never let it be said Toby Finch wasn't willing to try. "Uh, maybe, but I don't know how."

He does, and I get a snuff-for-beginners talk before he dabs some into the hollow between his thumb and forefinger and offers his hand to me.

What in Rome, right? I lean over and sniff. I'm a bit tentative—and you're definitely not supposed to snort it—but the stuff goes up my nose, so I guess I don't mess it up. It's a pale flash in the front of your brain, like just the right amount of wasabi.

I get a little round of applause for my bravery, which is cool.

Except Laurie doesn't seem happy at all. His eyes are so cold and stormy he sort of doesn't look like my Laurie anymore. He looks like he did when I first saw him, remote and wild and totally out of my league.

Maybe I shouldn't have taken snuff. He's a doctor; he probably feels strongly about addictive substances. But it's not like one pinch is going to turn me into a snuffhead.

Eventually we're allowed to stop drinking and start mingling again. Harris gives me his business card from a silver box of them and says I should call him if I ever find myself in Chicago or if I fancy giving the law another shot. He tells me he thinks I'd be a good lawyer, which is nice, but fuck no.

Then Laurie grabs me by the shoulder and spins me round.

"Laurie, what are—"

"Outside. I need to talk to you outside."

He doesn't actually give me any choice about it, just drags me out of the room and into the silence of the cloisters.

I can hear him breathing, harsh like when we're fucking. "What the hell, Toby? Just what the hell?"

I think…I'm almost scared of him. And that's a weird feeling. Also, he's seriously riled up about nicotine. "You mean, the snuff?"

"I mean all of it."

"I only took a bit."

"Not the fucking snuff…the…the…"

I blink at him. "The what?"

"Do you have some kind of…queer Electra complex? Older man fetish? Unresolved daddy issues? What?"

My mouth kind of drops open. I can't decide if I'm angry or hurt. Well, I'm both. But I can't decide which is bigger. "Jesus, Laurie. That's not okay."

"And flirting with half my fucking college is?"

"I wasn't—"

I don't get a chance to finish because he shoves me up against the wall and pins me there and presses his mouth to mine. Fuck, he's strong. And anger is coming off him like heat, and his kiss is sort of mean and frantic and tastes of sweet, heavy things.

Talk about mixed messages. Except. Wait. No. Oh my God.

I can't really get away from him—not sure I want to, anyway—but I pull my head to the side, which makes it hard for him to keep kissing me. "Laurie, are you jealous?"

The silence gathers itself again, and the pressure of his body against mine sort of eases off a bit. "Fuck." One word, but he sounds so defeated.

"It's okay." I lift a leg and hook it round him, dragging him in, hoping he'll get the message and start aggressively molesting me again. "I mean, I wasn't trying to make you jealous, and it's totally baseless because I'm all yours, but it's so hot you are."

"It's not hot, Toby, it's fucking adolescent. God, what's wrong with me?"

"What's wrong with you is you like me, and you don't like the idea of anyone else having me."

His touch is gentle as he pushes the hair out of my eyes. "You were enchanting. No wonder they all want you."

Maybe it's messed up, but I'm so fucking proud right now that my heart is spinning round the top of some spire somewhere. I think he's exaggerating in the madness of being jealous and not knowing how to deal with it, and obviously I genuinely don't want to upset him, but I like how much he wants me. How much he can't deny it right now.

"Well, they can't have me. Because I'm yours."

He nods.

I tip my hips into his. "Say it."

He hesitates. Longer than he ever has, even when I've made him beg for something he doesn't want to want.

It makes me anxious, the way his other waiting doesn't. I guess because this time it's not a game.

"Because…" It's hard to read someone in the dark. I can only catch the gleam of his eyes. "Because…" The word kind of rasps the second time he says it, like he's almost in tears. "Because…you're mine."

"I am, I so am." I throw my arms around him and nearly fall over because that only leaves me one leg for me, but he holds me up, safe between him and a five-hundred-year-old wall.

His cheek rubs against mine. His jaw's a bit rough. Calvados foam and centuries of civilisation, but Laurie still isn't tame. "Oh God, Toby. I'm so sorry I—"

"Don't you fucking dare. I loved it."

"Did you now?" There's a different note in his voice now, playfulness and a hint of threat I find insanely sexy.

I grin. "Yeah, because I'm a dirty little flirt, remember?"

He catches my wrists and drags them over my head, cradled in his palms so they don't catch on the stone. I'm not really into being restrained, but when it's Laurie, it's somehow still something he's giving me, all his strength for whatever I want to do with it.

I give him what I hope is a dirty-little-flirt look. "It's how I bring powerful men to their knees."

He groans in this deep, helpless way, and it echoes in the cloisters, this suddenly far-too-intimate moment. And then he's pulling me away from the doorway into the shadows, and we're kissing again, fumbling in the dark, everything reduced to touch and sound and secrets.

Laurie's rough with me, but in a good way, a little bit out of control. His body traps me against the wall again, but I keep my hands free so I can twist them in his hair, span them over the tight-pulled muscles of his back, dig them into his arse. Grope my way up to the remote in my breast pocket and hit the button, so he shakes and grinds against me, muffling his cries in my shoulder. And he's even wilder now, turning me round and bending me over the ledge of an archway.11

My hands come down on cold stone. Laurie leans over me, his teeth scraping the back of my neck, and I make a guttural, shuddery sound.

We must look fucking amazing. Framed in filthy tableaux in the moon-drenched cloisters.

I love doing this: imagining us together while we're together, all the ways we're different and the same, all the ways our bodies fit and all the ways mine can make his yield.

Laurie's fingers are under my cummerbund. The button on my trousers comes loose with a snick and bounces away—plink plink plink—and then, in one ruthless tug, I'm bare-arsed in an internationally renowned institution of higher education.

It's honestly kind of thrilling—I've come a long way from the boy who thought being fucked facing the foot of the bed was way out there—but at the same time, a bit nervous-making.

Except we're right at the back and it's dark and I'm pretty sure Laurie wouldn't be doing this if there was any danger.

So I just wriggle at him and arch my back, loving how powerful it is to be the dirty little flirt he thought I was.

He groans again, and then I hear him spit, which is so out of place here, so obscene and exciting. Also terrifying, because Laurie is, uh, sizeable and I'm kind of a lube fiend. And I definitely don't think I'm a sufficiently high-level sodomite for him to cruise in on saliva and a fair wind. His hand lands between my shoulder blades, holding me down, and he drags his slickened cock over the crease of my arse, which—considering his cock has been in my arse—shouldn't be as shocking as it is. But I guess my arse is kind of vulnerable at the moment, and I stifle a little whimper, knowing how hard and hot he is for me, wanting this urgency and this exposure, this weird little edge between threat and desire.

Then he shoves his knee between my legs and his cock between my thighs. And holy shit, that shouldn't feel like anything, but it does…it really does. There's just something really basic about it, this make-do conjunction, and it sends my stomach all wibbly and my legs all shaky. The skin of my thighs is wet and tender around his cock, like it's my mouth or something, like he's inside not outside, and I squeeze around him, tight enough to make his fingers curl and his breath catch. He thrusts…against…into? me, and his shaft rubs the underside of my balls, not entirely gently, but it makes startled little tingles ricochet through my whole body.

Sliding his arm around me, he lifts me off the ledge and reaches down to my cock. I guess I've had a pretty intense day—teasing Laurie on the train, fingering him into a pleading mess over the desk, knowing there's a plug inside him because I put it there, and now this—and I'm honestly not very good at restraint at the best of times. I've been a bit proud, actually, at how well I've controlled myself, but the moment he touches me, I sort of lose my mind. He gets his other hand over my mouth just in time to catch my scream.

Fuck. His hand. His cock. His body and the stone around us. His hot breath. The cold air. The cloisters.

His hand tightens over my mouth because I can't even breathe quietly. I'm making these funny little raspy, moany noises as he jacks me off and fucks between my legs, and everything is sweaty and sticky and a little bit awkward, but that's what makes it perfect. It feels raw and dark and a little bit ugly, and I come, biting his hand and sobbing because it's just so good, so fucking good.

He doesn't even let me catch a breath, just pushes me down again.

"Say it." A hot growl in the darkness.

"Say what?" I'm not messing with him. I'm just genuinely, fucked-out delirious.

There's this pause. Tiny but infinite. Eye-of-the-storm type thing. My brain finally finds enough spare oxygen to make a thought happen. I'm about to tell him I'm his, or he's mine, or something, when he whispers, "Tell me you love me."

"I love you." I think I might be scary close to actually crying. I know he wants me in a sex way, but this is so much more than that. He wants me. "I love you."

There's a remote in my pocket with a button that lets me implode him. I was kind of meaning to press it the moment he got close, but I just forget. I forget everything except what he needs to hear from me, and he comes, not in a wild roar, but so gently, trembling, as he holds me and I tell him over and over that I love him.

We don't exactly get an afterglow. We get a hasty pulling up of trousers and an inept deruffling of hair. We're both kind of wobbly, and not quite embarrassed, but self-conscious. Still open to each other, like we're still having sex.

Laurie has to use his pocket square to clean me up and mop the spatters from the stonework, and as he bends down, he winces.

"Toby, I have to… Please, can I…? I'm kind of sensitive."

"Oh God. Yeah. Sorry."

"No, no, it's fine. I just need it out."

He limps through the archway towards the New Building, and I trail after him, a bit guiltily. There's a toilet hidden in the bushes—like, for real—and he dashes into a stall, slamming the door behind him.

"Uh, can I help?"

"No. Absolutely not. Can you wait outside?"

"Sure."

I wait outside, and in a few minutes Laurie emerges, looking close to normal.

I gaze up at him anxiously. "You're okay, right? I didn't do anything bad?"

"You made me wear a butt plug to a formal dinner. Yes, Toby, you did something bad." I think he's smiling. "But it's all right."

"I didn't hurt you?"

"No. It's just having you watch me remove a butt plug crosses a line."

Suddenly, I notice something. "Uh, what happened to it?"

"I've thrown it away, darling. I'm not walking around with it in my pocket."

I slide my hand into the crook of his elbow as we wander through the moonlight. "You're just trying to get out of wearing it again."

"You got me."

Yeah, I think. I do. I lean against his shoulder, sleepy and content, but not wanting to bring my magical night of ancient traditions, good food, and cloister-banging to an end.

He untangles us and puts his arm round me instead, and that's even better.

"Is it over?" I ask. "Are we supposed to go back?"

"We can if you like. Most of the guests will have drifted away, but not everyone."

"No. It's okay. I like this more."

We make our way back through the cloisters and into the front bit. Our footsteps ring against the stone.

"There's a lot I don't know about you, isn't there, Toby?" His voice as he says it is quiet, just for me.

It's odd, because I've been kind of desperate for him to be interested in me, and now that he is, I'm not ready. I've got too much to lose now. He's given me too much to lose.

Today has been…better than anything. Being with him. Being part of his world, his life. Being someone he wants enough, values enough, to be jealous of.

Yes, it's not love. But it's near enough, right?

But what happens when he realises he has nothing to be jealous of? What if the truth about me—about my crappy little life—changes everything again? When we're finally close to where I want us to be.

So I flash a grin at him. "Then ask me sometime."

"You could have, at least, told me about your mother."

"Well, maybe I like just being Toby to you."

"How could you be anything else, you stupid boy?" He sounds kind of annoyed, but something else as well. Something I have no clue about. He stops walking and swings me round. "You see, the thing is—"

God. He looks so fucking serious. And I'm so afraid he's going to start demanding answers—Why aren't you at university? How did you fuck everything up so badly? Am I really dating some guy who cooks eggs for minimum wage? How can someone as everyday as you possibly be the kid of this famous iconoclastic genius?—that I panic and burst into the quickstep.

His face is kind of a picture as I jump about. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I don't know… I just felt happy, and the stone is all tappy, so I started dancing."

"This isn't a movie from the Golden Age of Hollywood, Toby."

I hold out my arm and the moonlight spills over my tuxedo jacket. "We are in black and white."

The shadows move over his face as he laughs. "I didn't even know you could dance."

"I'm not a barbarian. My granddad taught me."

I offer my hand, but he just stares at it like it's a dead fish and then actually backs away from it. "Oh…I can't. I can't dance."

"What, not at all? Not even when you hear ABBA?"

"I do my very best not to hear ABBA."

"I'll show you. It's easy."

He shakes his head. "I really can't, Toby."

I slow-quick-quick-slow my way round the…what's it called…quadrangle in the arms of an imaginary partner. Since he's watching me, I throw in a couple of rumba crosses, showing off, and eventually, natural turn and progressive chassé my way back to him. I'm a little bit breathless, but it's a big space. "And you call yourself a gentleman."

"I've never called myself a gentleman." He sounds stern, but then he smiles and kisses me lightly. "I like watching you dance."

"Dance with me. It's way more fun."

I try the hand thing again, and this time Laurie takes it. He's really hesitant, and his palm is a bit sweaty. He's scared? Oh my God. Too adorable. Getting him into the right position is like trying to move the Tin Man without an oil can, but I get him there. He's not going to win any competitions, but it could be worse. By which I mean I can hypothetically accept that there could be a less comfortable, less graceful way for someone to look. Though I can't actually imagine it.

I was going to have him lead since he's so much taller, but there's no way that's ever happening. He's stiff as a board, and his hand holding mine is a terrified claw.

Just when I thought I couldn't love him any more.

So I soothe him like I do when we're fucking, like when I have him in chains, and he quiets. I tell him it's going to be okay. I tell him he's beautiful. Because to me he is, and never more so than when he's doing something he doesn't entirely want to do.

God. I'm a sick puppy.

But I wouldn't change it for the world. Not when I get this.

I talk him through the basic steps and then guide him into them. At first he doesn't trust me, doesn't trust himself, won't relax, or can't, falls over my feet, his own feet, bits of perfectly flat ground, and he stands on my toes, like, a lot.

I'm just starting to think I've made a terrible mistake when he…there isn't another word for it…he surrenders, and we're dancing. Slow, slow-quick-quick-slow, slow-quick-quick-slow, slow-quick-quick-slow. He even lets me throw in a couple of natural turns and a back lock without freezing or stumbling or mushing my feet into the dust.

I speed it up. Because it's a quickstep, not a worried-and-quite-slow-actually step, and Laurie's laughing a little bit as we gallop round the quad in each other's arms. We're about five percent graceful and ten percent competent, but fuck it, we're dancing. And the faster we go, the closer we get to flying.

Eventually he falls over, and we come to a giggly, gasping, cuddly halt.

"Now you've just got to do it to music," I tell him.

"Now I just have to have a lie-down somewhere. Maybe with a cold flannel on my forehead."

I mock-scowl at him. "It wasn't that bad."

"I told you, I can't dance."

I pull him back into hold. "Nuh-uh, you don't dance. There's a difference."

"Not to me, there isn't."

I try to think of something that would be good for a quickstep and hum the opening of "Walking on Sunshine."

Laurie turns into marble. "And certainly not to Katrina and the Waves."

Apparently not. I peer up at him—the man I love and can't call boyfriend. I think of him on his knees. How he touches me. How he looks at me. The sadness in him and the secret joy he gives only to me. All the ways he makes me powerful.

All the ways he doesn't really know me.

That's when I know what we should dance to. "‘Dear, when you smiled at me, I heard a melody…'"

And Laurie smiles, and we dance, and it's a fucking disaster. Since I kind of have to concentrate a bit on singing, I can't count at the same time, and so Laurie keeps getting lost, and it's like our bodies have completely forgotten how to move together.

I'm just about to call the whole thing off, when—

"‘Zing! Went the strings of my heart.'"

Another voice joins mine. A way better voice, an effortless tenor belonging to someone who can actually sing. It's Jasper, leaning in the archway that leads back to the cloisters, wineglass in one hand, cigarette in the other.

Laurie and I collide. Stare at him. He gives us an airy little carry on gesture, like this is totally normal.

So we put our arms around each other again. I lead and Laurie follows and Jasper sings, and there's moonlight, and we dance and dance and dance until we fly and my heart is so zing. I can't even.