by Helen Juliet
Nicholas wasn’t sure why Fynn wanted to meet here, but his last text had said he was inside. So Nicholas joined the soggy tourists who were bumbling through the massive front doors into the coolness of the cathedral’s belly. Even for someone not even remotely religious, he couldn’t deny its grandeur. Half a dozen enormous archways lined the aisle down to the alter, and the numerous stained glass windows loomed from up above.
The enormous organ was on the second-floor balcony overlooking the whole interior, and someone unseen was quietly playing typical sounding ‘church music’ as Nicholas thought of it. As it was the Easter holidays, plenty of people were milling around, but it wasn’t hard to spot Fynn’s short dreadlocks as he scanned the room.
He was sat by himself in the middle of a row, so Nicholas had to awkwardly scoot down to reach him. There was no chance Fynn was ever going to mistake him for being cool at this juncture, however, so he tried not to let it bother him.
“Hi,” he whispered. He propped the dripping umbrella against the bench by his knee, and hoped the rain water would stop spattering on the stone slabs sooner rather than later.
Fynn turned to greet him with his silvery grey eyes. “Hey,” he said. He seemed to consider his words, then turned to face the front of the cathedral once more. “Glad you came.”
“Sure,” said Nicholas.
He interlaced his hands and let them drop between his knees. As beautiful as this place was, churches gave him the heebie-jeebies. He hated the idea some celestial being was glowering down at him in judgement, especially now his circumstances had changed.
“So, um,” he started, not sure if he was supposed to talk if he wasn’t talking to God. “Are you praying, or just here for the scenery?”
Fynn smiled and let out what might have been an indulgent sigh. “Neither.”
Nicholas licked his lips. “Are you religious?”
“Yes,” Fynn answered with a nod.
“This religion?” Nicholas’s theology may have been patchy at best, but he did know from growing up in the city that this was a Church of England cathedral, and that there were other kinds of variations of Christianity out there.
Fynn raised his pierced eyebrow at him, but Nicholas couldn’t tell what it meant. “Not technically, no,” he agreed.
“So that’s why you’re not praying?” On his walk over, Nicholas had promised himself he’d try and keep a tighter rein on his motor mouth, but apparently his gob hadn’t got the memo.
Fynn turned and angled his body a little more towards Nicholas. “I don’t really feel it works like that,” he said. He wasn’t cross, he sounded patient. “I like to come here to feel closer to God. Sometimes I talk to Him, sometimes I don’t. It’s not really about that.”
“Oh,” said Nicholas. He wasn’t sure he followed – wasn’t that why people had different religions and churches? So they could have their own ways of doing things? But, he knew his mum liked coming here to chill out from time to time, and she was atheist. So, maybe it was maybe just a therapeutic place. “Um, so it’s okay for you – in your religion, to uh, be like you are?”
There was that eyebrow again. “You mean gay?” Fynn asked.
Nicholas’s cheeks burned. He shouldn’t have asked that. He was just trying to juggle his own, many thoughts on the matter. “Yeah,” he mumbled, and rubbed at his face in an attempt to dispel the redness.
He was shocked as Fynn’s fingers gently circled his wrist, and urged his hand away. “You do that a lot,” he said. “Did you know?”
“Do what?”
“Pull and rub at your face,” he replied, frowning.
Nicholas stared at where his fingers were resting lightly on his pulse point. “Uh, yeah,” he said. “Old habit. Acne scars.”
Fynn let him go, but his shoulders were still turned towards him. “It looks like poking it hurts.”
“Not really,” Nicholas told him with a shrug. “It’s ugly scar tissue.” That wasn’t strictly true; sometimes the point was to make it hurt. He hated how disfigured his face was, and making it sore somehow made him feel better about it.
Fynn scowled at him. “They’re not ugly.”
Nicholas scoffed, then clapped his hand over his mouth as the laugh echoed around the room. “Says you,” he said, making sure to be quiet. He rolled his eyes. “You don’t have potholes all over your face.”
Fynn was still scowling. “They’re just a part of you.” Then he gave a smug, lopsided grin. “They give you texture.”
Nicholas did a better job of containing his laughter that time, but he still shook his head. “Shut up,” he said. Still, it was probably the nicest thing anyone had said about his face. Mostly people just ignored it as best they could.
“God is love,” said Fynn after a minute’s contemplation.
Nicholas didn’t quite follow. “Uh, cool,” he said.
Fynn held his palm up. “You asked what God thinks of me, being gay. How that works with my religion. And, I know not everyone agrees by a long shot, but I know that God is love. And love comes in all kinds of shapes and sizes.”
Nicholas thought about that for a moment. “Really?”
Fynn nodded.
“We love our families, we love our friends, we love our passions. Some people even love their pets,” he added with mirth. Nicholas nodded, although he couldn’t say he had all that much love for Archibald. “And there’s romantic love. Not everybody gets it, or wants it, but those of us who find it shouldn’t be judged if two people are happy.”
Nicholas considered what he was saying. “My mum has a friend who’s married to a man who is, like, twenty years older than her. She’s always been a bit…judgy about it,” he admitted. “Maybe because he left his first wife for her. And I always thought she was right. But, if they’re happy, isn’t that what really matters?”
Fynn smiled wryly. “I don’t know if the first wife would agree,” he said with a chuckle. “But, yeah. In principle, I think if they’re happy, that’s what really matters. Whether people are from different races, or are a generation apart, or are the same gender. I think God is totally fine with that. In fact, I feel that’s the point of life, right? To be happy?”
Nicholas had to agree. “I’d hope so.”
“And if you find someone to share that with, isn’t that pretty great?”
“I think so,” said Nicholas quietly. He looked up at the massive stained glass window above the organ.
Despite his own atheist nature, Nicholas found that sort of comforting to hear. If perhaps there was a grand old deity out there, he’d really like to think they wouldn’t smite someone like him once he reached whatever afterlife might be waiting for him on the other side.
“Shall we make a move?” Fynn asked after they’d spent several minutes looking up at the altar. “I guess it’s too much to hope the rain has stopped?”
Nicholas scoffed. “Not as far as I can tell.” Bloody weather.
He picked up the still-damp umbrella, and they both stood. It was awkward to shuffle out from between the pews, though Fynn looked less like he was going to topple into the next row at any given moment compared to Nicholas.
It was only a about a seven-minute walk along the crooked streets with their overhanging and lopsided Tudor houses. As it was still bucketing down, they both huddled under Nicholas’s umbrella together, their shoulders rubbing together in the most agreeable way as they walked slowly towards the town hall. Their route would take them down the lane where the two of them had first met on Saturday.
“I’m sorry about last night,” Nicholas said after a few minutes gnawing over his thoughts. He didn’t want to have a go at Fynn for neglecting him, so apologising for his own behaviour seemed like a good tactic to open up the conversation.
Fynn tutted. “Why would you apologise? You didn’t do anything wrong.” His voice had taken on a hard edge.
But Nicholas felt a surge of hurt. As nice as it was that Fynn had texted in the end, his lack of communication was
really starting to rankle. “Well, what am I supposed to think?” he said. He awkwardly pulled his arm free to put a bit of space between them. “You told me to text you, then didn’t text back. I assumed it was because I’d pissed you off by inviting you out, then bailing the moment you arrived.”
Fynn stopped walking on the street corner opposite the large furniture store, forcing Nicholas to do the same so they both remained under the umbrella. “Why would you think that?”
As much as he liked Fynn, Nicholas had had enough of the radio silences. He wanted to try and make him understand why he was upset. “What else was I supposed to think? A normal person would say thanks for doing what they’d asked, or at least follow up this morning to make sure I wasn’t freaking out or something. So, I figured you were just being responsible asking me to text you, then just carried on being pissed off about having to leave the club early.”
Fynn opened his mouth, then closed it again. He rubbed the back of his neck. “You really thought I was mad at you, for forcing me to go home?”
Nicholas hadn’t heard his voice sound that small before, and despite his best efforts, he softened a modicum. “It was one of my theories,” he said. “Yeah.”
“But…” He frowned. “I didn’t want to stay if you weren’t there.”
Nicholas shrugged. “How do I know you didn’t really want to dance until three in the morning. Or get trashed on Blue WKD? You acted like you cared, and then…you didn’t. I guess, I’m just confused.” Nicholas needed to stop talking. He was getting dangerously close to sounding like he wanted to know if Fyn really did care about him.
Fynn dropped his hand from his neck. “Oh.” He stared down the street, watching the cars slowly chugging by for a few moments. “I didn’t mean any of that. It didn’t even occur to me that you might think of it like that. I—” He looked sheepish and rubbed his hands together. “I was really happy when you texted. I just…went to sleep. I had no idea you’d be expecting a response.”
Nicholas was tempted to excuse his behaviour by saying he was overly needy, or a drama queen. But that wasn’t right. So he was simply honest. “I like a response. Otherwise I worry.”
Fynn seemed to think about that carefully. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay,” Nicholas told him.
But Fynn shook his head. “I just wanted to know you were okay, I thought that was obvious? I was…I was glad to hear you got home in one piece.”
“And you’re not grumpy that I wasted your evening?” Nicholas didn’t want to fish, but he needed to hear Fynn say it.
The clock tower chimed two o’clock overhead, and they both took a moment to glance up at it. “You didn’t waste my evening,” Fynn said once they both looked back down. “You’re right, I’m pissed off. But it’s because I keep thinking about what might have happened if I hadn’t been there.”
“Look,” said Nicholas with a sigh. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you were there, and I’m not going to say it was fine what happened. Or that it didn’t shake me. But, it really could have been much worse, and I’m okay now.” He smiled and touched Fynn’s arm through his jacket, offering a little truce. “I was kind of more upset about the lack of text today.”
Fynn looked pained. “Oh fuck, I’m sorry,” he said heavily. “I was at the gym, and my phone was just sat in my locker for ages. I swear I texted you as soon as I saw it.”
He slipped his hands into his jeans pockets, and looked kind of whipped. Nicholas felt the last of his anger melt away. “Okay,” he said kindly. “But, just don’t do it again.”
“Not text you back?”
“Yeah.” Nicholas grinned. “Even if it’s just a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ or a ‘thanks’. It’ll make me happy.”
Fynn stepped closer to him again, and they linked arms under the umbrella once more. “Then that’s what I’ll do.”
They began walking towards the town hall together again in amicable silence. The idea that Fynn would keep texting Nicholas at all made his heart flutter. He couldn’t know what would happen once the wedding was done, but it was hard not to hope that whatever it was between them might carry on.
They wandered into the entrance of the town hall and spoke to a very helpful middle-aged lady on reception called Rebecca. She wasn’t really supposed to let them through, but seeing as there weren’t any events taking place at that very moment, she agreed to quickly escort them through to the main room where both the ceremony and the reception would take place.
“Only because that Danielle is the most organised bride I’ve ever had the pleasure of dealing with,” she informed them as they followed her waddling down the main corridor. She wagged her finger at them with one hand, and unlocked the door with the other. “Everything on time or early, she’s been such a pleasure.”
Nicholas decided not to mention the fact that Danielle wasn’t in fact the bride. They’d got what they’d wanted, and Fynn only needed a minute or two, apparently, to assess the acoustics of the room. He nodded to himself as he stood in the middle and took in the space. It just looked like an empty hall at the moment, but Nicholas had seen it all decked up when they’d visited for the wedding fair and knew it would look impressive as anything once all the chairs were in and Danielle had worked her magic with all their decorations.
His phone sounded off in his pocket, so he quickly fished it out to answer the call. He knew from the Spice Girls ringtone it was Clara without looking at the screen. “Hey sis,” he said, with just a touch of guilt. He really should have been at home, helping with whatever last minute things needed doing.
He held his hand up to Fynn to get his attention, then walked back out the room so he could speak without interrupting Fynn’s artistic assessment.
“Oh Nicholas,” Clara’s voice came through the phone. She wasn’t crying, but she wasn’t throwing a parade either.
“Clara? What’s wrong?” He stood in the empty reception where no one was around for him to bother.
“We’ve have a bit of a hiccup,” she said. In the quiet of the entranceway, Nicholas could just about pick up the sound of his cousin screeching in the background.
“Is that Danielle yelling?” he asked. Familiar dread was swirling in his guts again. He wondered if it was a new crisis, or if they’d finally found out about the bridesmaid dresses. Or the harp.
As it turned out, it was a fun, new mishap. “She’s talking to the company that made the place cards. We got sent the wrong ones by mistake.”
Nicholas sagged against the reception desk. “You’re kidding,” he cried. How much bad luck could one wedding have? “Where are our place cards?”
There was a pause. “Sydney.”
Nicholas couldn’t help the shriek-like bark that escaped his throat. “Sydney, Australia?” Well, there was no getting those back then. “What are the other place cards like?” he asked. After so many disasters, he was getting that much quicker at slipping into problem-solving mode. “If there are enough, can we bastardise them and put our guests’ names on them instead?”
“There are probably enough,” Clara admitted. “But they’re all emblazoned with the Sydney FC logo.”
Nicholas blinked. “As in…the football team?”
To her credit, Clara laughed. “Yeah. Not exactly compatible with our romantic spring love theme.”
Nicholas scoffed and rubbed his eyes under his glasses. “I don’t think that’s compatible with anyone’s idea of romance. That poor bride.”
“Or groom,” said Clara.
Nicholas’s expression was impressed, but of course Clara couldn’t see that.
“Or groom.” He laughed. “Urgh, okay. What can we do?”
Clara sighed on the other end of the line. “Danielle is determined to get our money back, but as for replacements, I guess we’ll be doing some more arts and crafts.”
Nicholas grimaced, and reminded himself that he loved his sister, and would do anything for her special day. “Yes, it’s going to be fine,” he said firmly
. “Look, I’m in town right now. If you want me to pick anything up, just let me know, alright?”
Clara promised she would, and without much more to say, they closed the call.
Fuck. Just what else could go wrong? Nicholas wasn’t one to believe in signs, but it was sure looking bad from where he was standing.
“I think acoustic will be fine,” Fynn’s voice floated up from behind him.
Nicholas spun on his heels, clenching his fists and trying not to whimper. “This wedding is cursed.”
The receptionist eyed him suspiciously as she took her seat again. Fynn however just stepped closer and rested his hand on Nicholas’s shoulder. “It’s not cursed.”
“It bloody is,” said Nicholas. Sadly, that just made Fynn smile sympathetically.
“Come on.” He put his hand on the small of his back again, gently urging him towards the door. “Do you fancy coming back to mine for a cup of tea? Or do you have to rush off?”
Nicholas was immediately torn. He felt he should head home, or stick around in town if Clara or Danielle wanted him to pick anything up for them. But a quick glance at his phone told him they hadn’t messaged him yet.
There was no point in hanging around on the off chance they wanted him to buy card or stickers or whatever they might want for the new name places. And he didn’t fancy being around Danielle’s wrath if he could help it. If they contacted him later and asked for something, he could swing by and pick it up on the way home from Fynn’s.
“Sure,” he said gratefully. He picked up the wet umbrella from where he’d stashed it by the door. “A cup of tea would be lovely.”
Fynn insisted they get another taxi. Nicholas made a feeble protest at the cost, but the weather truly was miserable. “Plus,” Fynn told him, a sparkle in his eye. “I just got paid for this wedding gig I’m doing at the weekend. I’m minted.”
