by Laura Stone
Bursting back out into the sunshine, he walked toward the statue in the center of the courtyard and hopped up on the low wall that surrounded it to survey the entire area. No sign of Seth. He asked the gate custodian if he remembered seeing anyone who matched Seth’s description. Yes, but quite some time ago. He did, however, know that Seth had turned down south on King’s Parade, so at least Oliver had a direction.
He couldn’t run down the sidewalks without raising concern, not to mention that the streets were full; the day had turned into a gorgeous celebration of spring—warm, sunny, a gentle breeze in the open spaces.
Sunny. Seth would go inside, somewhere, since he hadn’t brought any sunscreen with him. Oliver’s breath hitched, thinking of Seth telling him that he hadn’t because he’d always been told that “you can’t get tan in England.”
He forced himself to stop and think where Seth may have gone, what shop he might be in, and rubbed his forehead, trying to keep his panic at bay. Oliver walked the full length of King’s Parade, ducking into shops and cafés looking for a familiar head of thick, perfectly styled light brown hair and coming up empty each time.
His heart was positively racing, and as he started back on the other side of the road, he wondered if maybe his first instinct was right. Maybe Seth had somehow found his way back home and was packing. Or had already left? He barely checked cafés at this point, only looked into the windows as his fear welled up thick and acrid in his throat. He turned down a side street where he thought he remembered a series of interesting shops and, after passing a few, moving deeper and deeper into the alley, he began to feel a prickle of recognition ripple over him.
He stopped still, his chest heaving from the half-jog, half-brisk walk he’d kept up for an hour or more. The sun did not shine brightly in this narrow corridor—the buildings were close and cramped on either side of him, blocking the light. He flashed on his nightmare (“Shh. He’ll be gone soon, it’s okay.”), and honest-to-goodness fear poured into his veins as he turned on his heel and ran out of there as fast as he could.
He probably looked like an idiot, but Oliver just couldn’t deal with anything that resembled his worst fear. He stopped when he felt the sunlight on his shoulders again and bent at the waist, hands on his knees, as he caught his breath.
“Are you quite all right?”
Oliver stood up and saw an older woman with a look of concern on her face. She reminded him of his mother, not because of her looks, but because of the reserved concern in her expression.
“I’m sorry, just a bit winded. Thank you, though.”
She nodded warily and moved off slowly, as if she didn’t quite believe him but didn’t know what to do about it. He stepped back against a building and looked at his watch. Christ, it had been three hours since he’d seen Seth. He saw the woman turn back and give him a small smile, and he flashed on something his mother had taught him when he was little, to stay in one place so he could be found.
It was worth a shot.
Oliver crossed the street, his hand out in apology as he ducked around cars in the oncoming traffic and made his way back to Wren Library. The gate custodian was talking with a group of tourists, so Oliver flashed his uni-card and ducked back inside, running full tilt across the lawn and through the maze of buildings until he emerged on the back lawn.
Someone was on the bench, obscured by the shadows of the large tree’s branches. Oliver’s heart thumped loudly, and not just from the exertion of running; it was Seth, sitting where he’d been earlier, looking out at the water.
Oliver gave a sob of relief. “I thought… I thought you’d left.”
Seth turned and looked at him over his shoulder. His eyes were red and swollen, but his face was clear. “I did, remember?”
Oliver dropped heavily into the empty space next to him and buried his face in the crook of his own elbow to wipe away the sweat and give himself a moment to calm down.
“No, I mean I thought you left.” Oliver drew in a shuddering breath and dropped his arm. “Like, the country. Or the city, I don’t know.”
Seth looked at him, his breathing hitched once, and then he reached over and took one of Oliver’s hands. “I don’t like fighting with you.” Seth’s head dropped and he turned it slightly away. “I’m sorry.”
Oliver dropped his hand and instead wrapped his arm around Seth to hold him close. “Seth, just—goddamn.”
They sat there for a moment as Oliver got his breathing under control.
“I hate feeling like this.” Seth’s voice was so quiet that if Oliver hadn’t been right next to him, he may not have heard it at all.
“Like shit?”
“Like I did when I drove home from your house that night, almost too blind to see because of how hard I was crying. God, I had to pull over every ten minutes or so.”
Oliver laid his cheek against Seth’s shoulder, his heart twisting painfully.
“Like a part of me died. Like the future didn’t seem all that exciting anymore, because you weren’t going to be in it.”
Oliver squeezed his eyes shut. He was at a complete loss for words.
“And yet here I am again, wanting and waiting.” Seth sighed and sat up, dislodging Oliver and shifting his body to angle toward him. “I’ve tried telling myself this whole time that this won’t actually work.” He looked off into the lawn and trees. “I didn’t want to get any hopes up. Just… I thought my heart stopped when I looked up and saw you across the street in New York, Oliver. I’d wanted it for so long that I thought it was something like a waking dream, I don’t know.”
When he finally brought himself to look at Oliver, there was nothing but emptiness in his eyes, their hazel color faded as if all feeling had finally just drained out of him. Oliver was devastated; he took Seth’s hands in his.
“We said we’d talk this through, and we’re not.” Oliver wasn’t above pleading at this point. “You’re talking to me as if it’s over. I don’t accept that, Seth.” Seth breathed out sharply in disbelief, his shoulders hunching with the effort. Oliver ignored it, insisting, “I don’t. Why are you automatically assuming the worst?”
Seth pulled one hand free and tenderly cupped Oliver’s cheek. “Because that’s what usually happens to me.”
Oliver covered Seth’s hand with his own. “No. It doesn’t. Seth—” He laced their fingers together. “The best things happen, too.”
He waited for a moment and watched Seth swallow convulsively, wanting to stop Seth’s lips from trembling with his own, but he knew that he couldn’t. Not yet. He hoped.
“I have two weeks, exactly,” Oliver said. “Two weeks to figure this out.”
“Well, I’ll be here for one of those agonizing weeks. Yay.” Seth gave a halfhearted cheer, but his smile, while diminutive, was real.
Oliver hung his head and gazed at their hands. How perfect they looked, linked together. “They want me to fly out there and visit the campus, talk with the professors, that sort of thing.”
Seth’s head jerked up; he was fully focused on Oliver now. “And you didn’t think of telling me that first? Jesus, Oliver.”
“I was going to tell you that part after I’d said all the rest, we just got… distracted,” he finished lamely. “But yes. They’re flying me out; I just have to say when.”
“So they really want you?” Lost in thought, Seth looked at nothing in particular.
Oliver exhaled through pursed lips, giving Seth’s hand a squeeze and bouncing it on his leg to keep Seth’s attention. “Yeah. I think stealing me from Cambridge would be a coup.”
Seth looked over at him, smiling. “Someone thinks a lot of himself.”
“Well, you know… some people think I’m a catch.” He waggled his eyebrows to be silly, but when he saw the heartbroken look on Seth’s face, he stopped.
“Come on. Let’s go somewhere else.” He pulled Seth to his feet. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starv—”
Seth pulled him into a tight hug, cutting off
whatever he was going to say. Honestly, his brain shorted out at the sensation of Seth, firm and real and holding him. He snaked his arms around Seth’s waist and buried his face in Seth’s neck. He wanted to stay as close as possible.
“Sorry. I really hate fighting with you. Always did,” Seth mumbled against Oliver’s shoulder.
“So let’s stop?” Oliver’s voice was muffled by Seth’s collar.
Seth gave him one last squeeze, pulled back and smoothed Oliver’s shirt at his shoulders and chest. Everywhere Seth touched sent a wave of warmth through Oliver, chasing away the chilly anxiety that had been pulsing through him since Seth walked off. It was an olive branch, Oliver knew. The past hurts couldn’t be taken away, but they could try—he could do his damnedest to make sure that there would be no more.
“Just don’t do anything stupid,” Seth said, affecting an excessively prim tone, “and I won’t have to yell at you for it, okay?”
Oliver grinned at him, relief dragging his smile to almost ridiculous proportions. “Deal. So… food?”
“God, yes,” Seth sighed, smoothing his own clothes and dusting off his backside. “Ugh, my ass is frozen.”
“Well, I can—”
“Do not finish that sentence, Oliver Andrews.”
* * *
They found a great place to eat and kept conversation to lighter topics. Oliver was still feeling quite raw from the day and knew that Seth had to be feeling that way, too. As Oliver took care of the check, Seth watched the passersby on the street through the window and then gasped and stretched his hand across the table to grip at whatever part of Oliver was accessible. Fortunately, he found Oliver’s hand and not, say, his nose.
“Oliver. There’s an Anthony’s right across the street.” His voice was almost reverential.
“I… okay? Do you want to g—”
“Yes!”
Oliver laughed and sat back in his chair, watching Seth light up at the thought of custom-made clothes. Of course Seth wanted to go.
“Didn’t you say something about your friend wanting to meet up?” Seth’s eyes were positively sparkling with excitement.
“Yeah, Moira wanted to meet later at our pub. It’s a great place, kind of well-known, but not stuffy or anything like that.”
“Perfect!” Seth stood, carefully pushed in his chair back and strode toward the door. “This way I can be sure I look my best for you.”
Oliver smiled and just tried to keep up. That seemed to be the story of his life.
* * *
In Anthony’s, Seth almost dropped to his knees and wept over the fabric choices. “Oliver, I can choose the color of the lining! From over twenty colors!”
Oliver hated to admit that it had been so long since he’d needed a full suit that he was almost out of practice. A fine sports coat or two, that was all he’d brought to England; there hadn’t been an occasion for more, not to mention that he just didn’t have the closet space or leisure time to be as well-dressed as he’d like. He was beginning to think of himself as looking a little shabby, quite frankly, when next to Seth, who was always pulled together.
After watching Seth get fitted for a full suit (to be handmade and sent to his New York apartment when finished) and a few dress shirts, Oliver decided that he too might need to spruce up. He pulled a few shirts off the rack—still exquisite—and had the onsite tailor hem them just so.
Seth gave him the final seal of approval by doing a double take when Oliver stepped out of the dressing room in a dress shirt and finely cut jacket in coordinating tweed, the fabric Anthony’s was best known for.
“Yeah?” he asked Seth, smoothing a hand down his shirt front.
Seth raised one eyebrow, smiled slowly and sweetly and said, “Very yeah.”
The tailor, his mouth full of pins and the tape measure around his neck, turned to look and nodded his approval as well. As if Oliver cared about his opinion; he’d just gotten a compliment of the highest magnitude from Seth “even my underwear coordinates with my socks” Larsen.
A full two hours later—the shopkeeper, pleased to have a Broadway star buying up half the store, had come out with two flutes of champagne for them—they finally left. Seth carried a few bags with him; the rest of his purchases were to be shipped to New York once finished.
“I might as well enjoy my steady employment while I have it, right?”
Oliver gave him a shoulder squeeze in sympathy, but he was certain that this week would not signal the end of Seth’s burgeoning career on Broadway.
“When are we supposed to meet Moira?” Seth asked as Oliver shouldered open the door to his flat.
“After eight? She won’t mind if we’re a little late. She um, has no problem with making new friends.”
Seth gave him a questioning look.
Oliver laughed and shook his head. “You’ll see.”
Seth deposited his bags next to Oliver’s wardrobe and stretched his arms out. “That gives us a few hours. Mind if I take a nap?”
“Mind if I join you?” Oliver bit his lip; he hadn’t meant to say it, it just slipped out. He was tired, it had been a hell of a day, and the food they’d eaten had made him pleasantly drowsy. He would sleep on the sofa if Seth still needed space.
“Not one bit,” Seth replied casually, turning to pull out some of his new things and hang them in preparation for the night.
“Okay.” Oliver had his shoes off and was on the left side of the bed faster than Seth could button his newly purchased shirt onto the hanger. He folded his hands over his belly and tried to exude a sense of relaxed friendship; he didn’t want to do anything to ruin the peace treaty they’d established.
The problem was that Seth, after slipping off his shoes and climbing onto the bed, immediately curled on his side facing Oliver and wrapped his hand around Oliver’s bicep. Not that it was actually a problem for Oliver. Not at all. He cracked an eye open and saw Seth with his eyes shut, a wistful sort of smile on his face. It wasn’t exactly what Oliver wanted to see, but it was far better than the gut-wrenching pain that had been on his face earlier.
“Just an hour, okay?” Seth mumbled.
“M’kay,” Oliver agreed. He laid his hand over Seth’s and smiled at the warm smoothness of it, sighing as Seth laced their fingers together. He immediately felt slightly less off-kilter, and while the apprehension that everything could still go wrong remained, a part of him simply refused to give up hope that they could find a way to make it work. Their laying together in a moment of unconsciously declared truce fed that tiny ember of hope. And it wasn’t anything world-changing; it was just a nap. Oliver stroked his thumb over Seth’s hand, smiling as Seth moved just a touch closer and at the hum of pleasure he made.
Oliver was out like a light in two breaths.
Chapter Sixteen
When Oliver woke, the room was dark, save for a sliver of light coming from under the bathroom door. He could hear Seth humming; he must be in there getting dressed, Oliver thought, and pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, rubbing the sleep out, pushing himself up to a sitting position. It had definitely been more than an hour.
He glanced at his clock: seven-fifty p.m. He quickly pulled out something to change into. Seth came out of the bathroom, all ready, and Oliver couldn’t help but let out a low whistle. Seth looked amazing: tailored, together and utterly handsome.
Seth preened a bit, dusting his shoulder in an old, familiar gesture that tugged at something not quite healed over in Oliver’s heart. “Not too much?” he asked, a little worry in his expression. He smoothed his perfectly tailored waistcoat over one of his new shirts.
“Not at all. In fact…” Feeling like a tightly wound thread, vibrating and filled with the potential to snap from their proximity, Oliver fished one of the many pocket squares Seth had purchased out of one of his bags and tucked it into the small front pocket of Seth’s tweed vest. Seth’s chest was solid and firm under Oliver’s fingers, his breath warm and sweet against Oliver’s cheek.
&n
bsp; Oliver took a step back to clear his head and see his handiwork. Seth was breathing slowly, but his eyes were filled with heated longing, and it thrilled Oliver that he could still elicit that reaction.
“Better?” Seth asked, his voice quiet but slightly husky.
It took a lot for Oliver to resist pulling their bodies closer there in the dark room, but he controlled himself. He needed Seth to say it would be okay. “Perfect.” Almost overwhelmed with longing, Oliver was the first to break eye contact. He looked over at the clock and made a noise. “I better get a move on; Moira will be halfway into some stranger’s lap if we don’t get there soon.”
Seth cocked an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. Oliver’s face heated; he knew it sounded bad, but Seth would soon see for himself what Moira was like.
“I’ll, um, just be a minute.”
“Take your time; it might be more interesting if your prediction comes true,” Seth laughed. He grabbed a magazine from Oliver’s dresser and left the room.
Oliver shut the bathroom door and exhaled. In the tiny room, he was immediately surrounded by the warm, spicy scent of Seth’s aftershave. He groaned quietly in frustration. He didn’t know how he was going to be with Seth for the next week and keep his hands to himself. Of course he would never push anything. But God, the desire to be with him again…
“Why can’t he dress in flannel and stained jeans?” he mumbled as he stepped into the shower.
Of course, knowing Seth, he’d make even that look good.
* * *
“Ah, there she is.” Oliver waved his hand high in the air until he caught Moira’s attention. She was in their usual spot at the end of the bar; she’d once told him, “Where the till is, the bartender will be. And where the bartender is, there you’ll find me.” He had learned early on that the more she drank, the more she had a tendency to rhyme.
He made his way through the crowd of patrons with Seth close by his side, holding his forearm, and his nerves thrummed with pleasure at having Seth so near, holding him. He was nervous and excited for Seth and Moira to meet. They were different, but they had similarities, too: They both spoke their minds; they were both dramatic. Seth was just more, well, buttoned up, whereas Moira would happily pop open every button within reaching distance.
