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Rory and Sebastian

By: sebastiando



- Everyone in this story is over the age of eighteen at the time it begins -

I wish I could say it was love at first sight. But it wasn't. And it wasn't one of those instant hatreds either. The kind where a weird tingle shoots straight to your balls and you want to pound the fuck out of the person -- whether it's with your fist or your dick, you don't quite know. Yet.

But when I first met Rory Masterton, it was nothing like that. To be honest, I don't think we really noticed each other at all. From the first time we spoke in class, I was pretty sure he was gay. I didn't have a problem with it; hell, by that stage, I was pretty sure I was too. England has a much more laid back attitude to the whole thing than the States, weirdly, particularly in the private schools. So I guess I was lucky with that! There were two guys who were already "out" in our grade when I transferred in and I came-out shortly afterwards. People were more surprised with me, I guess, because I was so 'jock,' but again, no-one gave me any hassle about it. (When I read stories on the Internet about how rough other people have it when they come out, the way my school mates generally reacted makes me feel incredibly blessed.) Rory came out the same year I did and by the end of high school, there were eight guys known to be gay. 

Rory and I were eighteen when we began to speaking to each other properly. At the time, one of the guys I'd been hooking up, Joshua, had gotten pretty into me. A lot of e-mails, phone-calls, letters. It was a bit much and I hate clingy behavior; I gave him the brush off pretty brutally. Dumping him via text was definitely a personal low point. 

If Rory knew anything about my private life (and he knew pretty much everything about everyone in our year), he gave absolutely no sign of it for the first two years of knowing me. I can't say I knew much about him either. I knew he was pretty well off, like most of the people at our school; he was friends with most of the popular girls and half the polo team. I knew he played tennis, went to a lot of parties and was fluent in French. I'd heard once, I think, that he'd been hooking up with a guy in the year above us -- Stefan, or something. Beyond that, I really didn't know much about him. I think I registered, vaguely, that he was handsome, in a sort of unremarkable way. He was tall (not as tall as me; still isn't), thin, toned, brown hair and had the most beautiful pair of big brown eyes. Those I noticed later. He wasn't campy or anything; just slightly flambo at times, very well spoken and, I don't know, I guess I want to say "elegant" in the way he moved. Even the way he pointed or gestured. There was something pretty old school about it. I also knew he was smart. Really fucking smart. It kind of oozed from him and he managed it in a way that was so completely unpretentious. In class, I'd heard him talk about the six wives of Henry VIII, the US constitution, Catholic theology and Margaret Thatcher in a way that just reeked of quiet, intellectual confidence. This kid knew his shit.

But if you'd asked me before the final year of school if I thought Rory Masterton was a nice guy, I'd have said no. I'd probably have hesitated before I said it, but I'd still have said no in the end. Firstly, he was friends with some of the biggest bitches in our whole year -- Virginia Reilly, his so-called BFF, was (and is) a total bitch. Secondly, there was something about him that was vaguely cold at times and definitely superior. He had a way of flicking his eyes up and down over people who he wasn't interested in knowing. It wasn't necessarily intended as mean, but it was definitely soul-crushing all the same. As if you weren't even worth his time mocking.

Me? Now, here's the other moment in the story where I wish I could click neatly into the stereotype. You could say that next to this cool British socialite, I was the tall, dumb American jock. Only I wasn't dumb. I was smart; I loved History, I had a good grasp of math and science and I fucking loved being able to take a Latin class. I mean, c'mon - how retro cool is that?! I guess I was a jock though. In a way. I loved sport and all my mannerisms were pretty masculine. (I hate it when people say 'straight-acting.' Guys, unless you're having sex with a woman, it's not 'straight acting,' for fuck's sake.)

Anyway, I was originally from Richmond, Virginia. My mom was English and she always wanted to move back there. We were well off enough and me, my brother and my sister got into the local private school, Saint Edmund's, a pretty beautiful red-brick building in the southern county of Kent. The school had apparently been set up five hundred years ago by one of the Tudors. My sister was a history nerd, so she nearly wet her pants with excitement when she heard that. It was pretty neat and I made friends quickly. I could ride horses from having done it as a kid on my grandparents' place back in Georgia and I had played lacrosse back in the States too. I kept growing and I found I had a talent for rugby. Great game; much more savage than football back home. I absolutely loved it and I loved the guys on my team. Well, most of them. I was happy at Saint Edmund's and happy in England. I more or less kept my American accent though and got to crack out some words like 'arse,' 'wank' and 'banter' on a pretty regular basis.

Rory and I bumped into each other at a few parties. He always invited me to his and I returned the favour. But I couldn't say we ever had a proper conversation. We had quite a few friends in common and anytime we did end up in the same circle, at parties or at school, he was polite, I guess, but he didn't seem overly interested in me. See, there's a slightly snobbish side to Rory, that used to make me bang him harder when we were eventually together. At the time, it made me think the guy was a bit full of himself. He'd stare at me, as if he couldn't quite work me out. Like I was some sort of American tourist attraction that he didn't find particularly entertaining. I was 6'4 by the time we entered final year and he, at 6'1, apparently seemed to think that I was too tall, a little bit too built and maybe a bit too cocky. 

He was probably right.

The first time I thought of him as being in anyway attractive was at the start of October in our final year. I'd turned eighteen that summer and Rory had a big blowout eighteenth for himself a week before school started. On the day we began speaking properly for the first time, I'd sprained my ankle a week earlier when I fell when I was out running; Rory had suffered the world's most massive nosebleed that morning after chapel and the gym teacher, Mr Gortchin, made him sit out class that afternoon in case there was a repeat of the situ. I don't think Rory was overly devastated by that decision, to be honest. It was a September morning, but still summer really. There was a cool breeze blowing up off the playing fields and I was leaning on a rail near the changing rooms, looking down on the fields and my team-mates. Rory stepped up next to me and wrapped both of his hands around the rail. He leant back slightly, 'Sick?' he asked.

'No,' I answered, still looking at the gym class. 'Sprained ankle.'

'Most people would count that as sick, Sebastian.'

I heard the slight giggle in his voice and I smiled back. A half-smile. He had a point.

'So,' he said, turning to face me. He leant his hip against the rails and bit his bottom lip in a smile. His eyes were bright; sparkling with amusement. 'I hear things with Joshua Peterly haven't gone too well?'

Rory had that, you know. That quality I'd later see him use on other people. All of a sudden he'd turn on you and hit you with the full force of his charm. The eyes bright, the smile mischievous; every tiny bit of his body inviting you to confide in him. He looked so confident and so charming. And so fucking smug. My cock twitched.

I turned to face him and ran my tongue along the inside of my bottom lip. A cocky smirk was on my face -- well, half-cocky, half-rueful. 'Yeah, dude, they didn't turn out too well. He came on a bit keen.'

'Joshua likes to do that,' Rory said. 'Enthusiasm's his thing. It makes up for not having much of a personality.'

Ouch. I laughed. The kid might be a bit of prick, but he was right about Josh. 'So what was the policy? Treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen?' Rory asked.

I looked down with fake modesty. 'I didn't have to have much of a strategy to keep him keen, dude.'

He smiled and exhaled, like a slight laugh. He turned his head to look out at the pitches. He was wearing the white school shirt, the black and silver tie and the gray charcoal trousers. 'Via text message though? That's pretty savage.'

I shrugged. 'Probably not my finest hour. Is Josh upset?'

Rory waved his hand in the air slightly, as if Josh's feelings were an irritating irrelevance. 'Apparently. He's making a lot of fuss. He says he was just another notch on your bed post, so now you can say you've messed around with every gay guy in the year. And four of the straight boys, although he wouldn't say who.'

'Well, I've never hooked up with Sammy O'Brien,' I said, referring to the gay kid in the Science class I hated.

'Who would?' Rory laughed. 'He's so ugly, I'm sure he struggles to have a wank.'

I laughed. Shit, Rory really was funny. And mean. But so fucking funny.

'Or you,' I said after a moment, giving him a cheeky grin. 'I've never hooked up with you either.'

'True,' Rory replied, as if he'd never really thought about it.

'I could stand behind you and fuck you right here? Get it over with?'

I hadn't expected him to laugh at that. But he did. 'I'm sure Mr Gortchin wouldn't mind. Would you be able to get up enough momentum with that ankle of yours?'

'Dude, if you think an ankle's essential for fucking, you've been doing it wrong.'

Rory giggled again. Christ, his eyes really were beautiful. 'I'm sure you could show me a thing or two.'

'I'd fucking destroy you, Rory.' I was getting a semi and it was the first time I'd used his name in the conversation.

There was a silence in conversation for a bit. It wasn't awkward; we were both still smiling.In theory, it was all still just good natured banter. After a moment, I looked over. 'What about you? I've given you some gossip for Virginia and Caroline later. Give me some in return, bro. Any guys?'

Rory shrugged and kept his eyes on the pitch. Another gust of wind blew past him. It was warm and his tie danced for a moment around his chest. His hand came up and elegantly held it back down where it was supposed to be. 'No,' he answered. 'Not really.'

'Not really?' I teased. 'What does that mean? Are you a fan of the hump and dump strategy?' Why could I not stop talking about sex with this guy? My semi was firming up.

Rory didn't look at me this time and the smile was less warm. I wish I could say it was because of the beginning of his romantic infatuation with me, but honestly I firmly believe it was because he just didn't find the phrase 'hump and dump' to be particularly entertaining. And, let's be fair, who can blame him there? It wasn't exactly Voltaire, was it?

'No, "hump and dump" is more your strategy, Sebastian.' Everyone calls me Seb. But it sounds so Brideshead Revisited-meets-naughty young twinks when Rory says 'Sebastian.' I wanted to face fuck him right there and then. Holy fuck. Hold it together. Stay calm. Do not get a full boner. Not here. Not here. Not here.

'I wouldn't dump you, Rory,' I said, with mock romanticism.

'You wouldn't get to hump me, either, Sebastian,' he retorted. He wasn't looking at me again, but the smile was back. That was something.

*

I got home that afternoon to find Joshua waiting in my living room. My mom was fussing around him, making him tea and biscuits.

'Sebastian,' (okay, her and Rory use the full name), 'your friend Joshua is here from school. He stopped in to say hi.'

'Hey, Seb,' he said, with a friendly smile. What the fuck was he doing here? I'd told him we were through. I'd tried twice to do it to his face, but he wouldn't listen and he cried so hard. And now he was here. Talking to my mom and in my family home. It was too far and I didn't like it. Come to think of it, I think that's one of the reasons why I'd never really liked Josh. Underneath all his desperation and cries for attention, I'd always had the impression that deep down, it was manipulative. At his eighteenth birthday last summer, I could remember seeing him crying because he said one of his friends didn't love him enough. What a mess. It just seemed so phoney. Looking back on it, Josh just couldn't handle being alone and he didn't care what he had to do to avoid it.

'Oh. Hi, Josh.'

'I have to nip into the village to get some things for dinner, but it was lovely seeing you Josh. Seb, if your father calls, tell him that Evan and Jenny are at badminton club until 5.30. Tell him I'll pick them up.'

'Sure thing, mom.'

She leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. 'See you later, Josh.'

'See you later, Mrs Carson. And thank you so much for the tea and biscuits.' Little shit.

The door closed and we were alone in the house. Josh set down his cup and began to saunter towards me. He must have thought it was sexy. Maybe it was. 

'Josh, what the fuck are you doing here?'

'I missed you, baby.'

Irritating. 'Oh. Sorry.'

'You didn't seem sorry today when you were talking to Rory Masterton. Is that who you ditched me for?'

'Rory? Rory's just a friend!' I snapped. Why did I say that? He's not a friend. Today was the first time we'd ever properly talked to each other.

'Since when?' Josh shot back. 

'Josh, we're through.'

'Seb, baby, please, don't say that.'

God, he's annoying! He was right in front of me now; his Zac Efron-like brown hair and hazel eyes, his slight tan and lean figure. He was quite hot. His hand reached out and stroked my crotch. My dick flared a little and Josh smiled. A sneaky, sexy smile. 

'Fuck me,' he purred.

'Pardon me?'

'Use me. Do whatever the fuck you want to me, Seb. Just fucking use me like a dirty little cumslut.'

I nearly creamed my pants. 'Josh, I don't want a relationship with you. With anyone.'

'I know that,' he pouted, continuing to stroke my thickening dick through my trousers. 'I know that and I've accepted that. We can just have a little fun, can't we? I mean, we're both gay, baby, right? Let's just fuck. Let's just do it. I miss that big dick of yours. I need it. I want it. Let me please you, baby. Let's just have some fucking fun.'

I knew he was lying. I knew the second I shot my load in him, he'd be back to texting me twenty times a day. Minimum. But as he dropped to his knees in the middle of my living room on a Thursday afternoon and unbuckled my belt, I threw back my head and gave in. My dick bounced out of my boxers a few seconds later and his mouth was over it almost instantaneously. He started slobbering up and down it, making noises he must have heard in a porno. I gripped his hair and thrust a little. He yanked my boxers down to my knees and my school trousers hit my ankles. One of his hands began tracing my ass cheeks. I could hear the slosh of his spit as my cock ploughed through it in his mouth. 

At least this way he wasn't fucking talking. Some of his spit dribbled down onto my balls. 

After a few moments, I looked at my watch. I had ten minutes before my mom got home; that's if she drove fast. I wanted to cum. So I pulled Josh off my dick. He looked up at me. His face was flushed and spit bubbles were at the side of his mouth. It was hot. He pulled a small tub of Vaseline out of his pocket. He'd come prepared. And I was going to fuck him on the floor of my living room.

He undid his pants while I lay back on the floor and undid my shirt. I had a nice six pack and I knew Josh liked it -- may as well let him see it. He was fingering his asshole; lubing it up. And then he leant down and kissed me, running his hands through my short, blond hair. Great -- now there's ass sweat and Vaseline in it. He sat back and began to arch slowly onto my dick. I unbuttoned his shirt as he did it and put my hands just above his waist. Once he was settled on it, he began to bob up and down on it. All the time, he kept telling me how big I was, how full he felt, how it was so. Fucking. Good. I imagined how Rory would look up there. Or Robbie Kirkpatrick, the hottie who played outside centre with me on the rugby team. Or the real Zac Efron.

After a few moments, I knew I needed to finish, so I spun him over and began pounding in and out of him like a maniac. He was squealing like a stuck pig and urging me on. I spat on my fist and began jerking him off, since I didn't want to be a selfish prick about the whole thing. I wasn't wearing a condom, which was stupid. Josh might have been with anyone else since we'd stop fucking two weeks earlier. I mean, given that he was sucking and fucking me in broad daylight in my own living room, I don't think chastity was high on the list of the kid's priority. But then when you're balls deep in someone yourself, it's probably best not to cast judgement.

I let out a loud groan and slammed into him, holding myself there as I came. It was a lot, I could feel that. And Josh said something stupid like, 'Yeah, that's it, Daddy -- breed me! Breed me real good.' I mean, we're both 18, so I'm not your daddy, dipshit, and 'breed me'? C'mon! Who the fuck speaks like that? 

Anyway, he shoots a second or two after me and I pull out as quickly as I can. I start getting dressed and he just lies there, on my living room floor, practically naked, with a load of cum about to leak out of his asshole and his cum drying on his chest. 'Dude, you need to go,' I say. I hope I don't sound like a total asshole. Shit, the room smells like sex. I buckle my belt and walk over to the window to open it. When I return, Josh is still lying there, with cum puddles on his chest and a stupid look on his face. 'I can't believe we came at the same time,' he sighed.

'I came first.' I held my arm out and helped him up. At some point during sex, I'd planted a hickey on him. Wise move, dumbass. He'll probably be showing it off to everyone this time tomorrow.

Slowly Josh gets ready, still looking at me with twinkling eyes as I move around spraying room deodorizer. 'I meant what I said,' he said after a moment, 'this was just fun. No strings.' I hate myself as he says it and I don't like him either. I'm a fucking slut. A dumb fucking jock, who thinks with his prick and has just ram-fucked some dumb slut on my parents' living room floor. What if they'd walked in and seen us? Did I have any fucking respect for them? They knew I was gay, but it's not like they needed to see their second son jack-rabbiting someone on their carpet. And now, while Dad's at work and mom's grocery shopping, I'm running around trying to disguise the smell of sweat and jizz. Classy, Sebastian. Really fucking classy. AND I've just got sucked back into Josh's demented game of fatal attractions because I couldn't keep my dick in my shorts. Great!

*

Josh leaves and I go upstairs for a shower and a nap. I climb into bed and my eyes close the moment my head hits the pillow. I wake up and there are two texts waiting for me on my iPhone. One's from Rory. I smile; he's never texted me before, except with party details.

"Hope your ankle is feeling better. They say it's a key erogenous zone."

I smile. I'm about to text back and then I see the other one's from Josh.

"Hey. Today felt really special. What are you up to?"

Fuck.

Rory and Sebastian Ch. 02



-Everyone in this story is over the age of eighteen -

I walked into school the morning after having sex with Josh on my living room floor. The weather had started to get a little bit colder out and I took my coat off before walking down the corridors to registration. As a rule I didn't usually properly wake up until sometime around eleven, preferring to opt for zombie mode before then. Today, however, I was about to get a fairly rude awakening.

As I passed the water fountain, I bumped into my friend and team-mate, Robbie Kirkpatrick. I'd jerked off to the mental image of Robbie a few times, I won't lie. He was tall, toned and swarthy - and Rory Masterton's oldest friend. He was also a good guy - really funny, really straight (in every sense of the word) and a big hit with the ladies.

"You dog," he smiled.

"What?"

"Just heard about you and Josh Peterly yesterday after school."

"You have got to be fucking kidding me." I groaned. "How?"

"He was showing off that monster hickey you gave him to Natalie and Suzanne this morning."

"Fuck my life."

"Come on, Seb, relax. So you fucked him? Big deal."

"I really don't want people to think him and I are an item, Robbie."

"Stop having sex with him, then," he teased. Then smiled again. He cuffed me on the shoulder. "Relax, Seb. It's not a big deal."

But it was a big deal. It sounds douchey of me, but deep down I really disliked Joshua Peterly and I loathed myself every time I gave in and had sex with him. It wasn't that I judged him for being so forward with wanting sex. I mean that's just like, whatever, no big deal. It was that the whole thing was always so desperate. I love sex; I mean, I really fucking love it. But every time I was with Josh you could smell his desperation for attention and my desperation to relieve the boner he'd just given me. 

And there's no point, not even a little, in denying that on that morning I was already worried about what Rory would think about me if, or rather when, he heard that after trash-talking Joshua yesterday afternoon, I'd been inside him by yesterday evening.

Robbie and I separated as he went off to his home room and I headed on to mine. 

"I hear your ankle's recovered, Sebastian?"

I froze at the sound of Rory's voice and looked behind me. "Yeah, it has," I said, trying to sound cocky and joining in our private joke. "My brain apparently needs a bit more time." Please don't hate me, I thought, and then mentally berated myself for being so fucking desperate. Before yesterday, I'd barely spoken to this guy and now I was ... now I was, what?

Rory shrugged. Infuriatingly. He smelled great as he fell into step beside me. "I'm glad you two have sorted things out," he said, evenly. "Joshua seems extremely happy this morning."

"We haven't sorted things out. It was just a..."

"I don't need to know," he said, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He looked indifferent to me and I didn't like it.

"It was nothing, Rory," I said, quietly and firmly. Was he listening to me? Did he care? Please care.

"Oh dear," he said, after a second. So lightly; so very English. "Joshua will be disappointed. Try not to have sex with him again when you're letting him down gently. It might make the message a bit clearer for him."

And at that, he spotted Virginia Reilly, his evil incarnate BFF. He left me and crossed to the other side of the corridor to speak to her. 

This day was going to suck ass. 

*

"Hey babe."

"Hey Josh."

Josh sat down next to me in the Library and smiled. "So, what are you doing after school today?"

"Not much. Why?"

"Fancy doing me?" he whispered, leaning in. I felt embarrassed for him. I could also feel my balls tingle and prayed I wouldn't end up inside his mouth ten minutes after the end of school. The guy was cute; stupid and annoying, but definitely cute. 

"Look, Josh, I thought..."

"No strings!" he gushed, running his hand up the inside of my leg under the table. "Remember?"

"Yeah? Then how come when I came into school half the year knew about the hickey I'd given you?"

"I couldn't exactly hide it, could I? It's enormous. And anyway, why does it matter if people know we're fucking?"

"That kind of stuff is supposed to be private, Josh."

"Since when?" he asked. "Are you trying to tell me the rugby team don't talk about who they're screwing all the time?"

Fuck. He had a point.

"Why do you care who knows?" he asked. "Are you embarrassed of me?"

"No," I lied. "I just... don't want people to get the wrong idea."

Josh's eyes darkened for a moment. He was pissed. But he also wanted to get inside my pants this afternoon, so his face brightened into a smile. A fake one. Very quickly. "Well, okay, then, whatever," he sighed, getting up from the table. "Let me know when you decide to be less prudish, Sebby."

"Okay." I turned back to my books. Who the fuck told him 'Sebby' was a good idea for a nickname? I'm 6'4.

"Oh, and by the way," he shot back, "I saw you talking with Rory Masterton this morning. You know, he's a total prick, don't you?"

I shrugged. "I don't really know Rory." But I could feel myself blushing and I did not blush easily. Something about Rory really got under my skin and something about Josh even saying his name made me very, very uncomfortable.

"Oh right," said Josh, sounding completely unconvinced. "Well I guess if I won't see you this afternoon, I'll see you at Robbie's party on Saturday then?"

"Sure."

"See you then, Sebby." 



Rory and Sebastian Ch. 03



-- This is the third installment in the 'Rory and Sebastian' series. I am very sorry it's taken so long. I have been travelling! I hope you enjoy it and thanks to everyone who was so complimentary about the first ones! There'll be more to follow --

I think that it's always a good idea to beat off before a party. Especially if there's going to be someone there that you like. My laptop sat open on my bed and so did my legs. I was fist pumping away, using my prejac as lube. On the screen was a Facebook photo of Rory Masterton on vacation; topless in the Mediterranean. He was smiling into the camera and standing alone. He had green swimming trunks on, just visible beneath the water. I'd realize later how rare those kind of photographs were. He wasn't tagged in it, actually. I'd come across it in the FB album of a mutual friend, Robbie, and thought it was time to get pumping. A light dusting of dark hairs flecked on Rory's tanned chest and there was that hot little twinkle in his eyes. I imagined 69ing him and then flipping him over to fuck him, doggy style, until he couldn't walk for a week.

Only a few days after properly speaking to him for the first time, I had acknowledged to myself that I was crushing on Rory Masterton. Hard. And tonight I'd be seeing him at Robbie's house party -- his best friend and my team mate. I'd also be running into Josh, who would be doing everything in his power to make sure he ended up bouncing up and down on my penis. So the tactical jerk off was necessary to make sure that I didn't either cream myself the moment I saw Rory or get so drunk and horny that I ended up taking Josh out to Robbie's back garden to do him in the bushes like I'd done three weeks ago.

I threw my head back slightly as I came. There was a lot of it; splattering onto my six pack and my happy trail of stomach hair. I lay back for a moment. There was a tiny bit of sweat on my body. That had been a good wank. I smiled at the laptop, logged out of Facebook and closed the screen. I hadn't heard from Rory since bumping into him in the school corridors the morning after I had sex with Josh, but I couldn't stop thinking about him and I know we had chemistry when we spoke at the school playing fields. Maybe I was being dumb, but I thought I could date this guy? At least take him out on a date; a proper date, not a bullshit one or a grope at a house party. Maybe I should ask him out on a date tonight? Maybe. He was cute. And really funny. And I was an arrogant dick -- so why not ask him? The arrogance was part of my charm. Allegedly.

I bounced naked out of bed and headed into my bathroom. I stepped in and turned the power on. It was a strong shower -- or, as strong as you can get in England. Don't get me started... Anyway! The water fell over my body and the cum was washed away. I began lathering up; I love that feeling. I ran the suds over my body and relaxed beneath the spray. It'd been a rough game of rugby today, but we'd won, which meant tonight's party would be a hell of a lot better -- fuck knows our host would be in a much better mood. Robbie took losing badly. In everything. My muscles felt soothed again in the shower and I relaxed. I thought about what I was going to wear tonight and whether to split a taxi or lifts with my friend Daniel. I thought of Rory again and smiled. He really was cute.

*

I got there late, with Daniel. The party was already buzzing and I'd already seen another team mate, Sean, hooking up with Caroline, one of the popular girls he'd been crushing on for a year. I was wearing a rugby shirt with a popped collar, which is significantly less douchebaggy in England than it is in the States and okay if you're 18. At least, that's what I tell myself! Hey -- look, it fitted me well and sat nice on the jeans. You could see a nice line of the Calvin Klein boxers above my dark denim jeans. I felt good and I smelt good. I just hoped I wouldn't open my mouth, stay something stupid and ruin it all with Rory.

I didn't see Rory, or Josh, for the first half hour of the party. Maybe a little longer. I ended up playing some beer pong with a few of the lads from the rugby team and getting the low down on his hook-up from Sean, once he finally removed himself from Caroline's face. I drank a lot, but I did my best not to break the seal. But by 10.30, I couldn't take it anymore. My bladder felt like it was about to burst. I took off to the bathroom and, wouldn't you know, bumped right into Josh. There was a flicker in his eye and a relaxation in his body, which told me instantly that he'd been looking for me. It's what your body silently does when it finds its target. I inwardly groaned, but outwardly smiled politely. As non-committal as I could be without being openly rude. I tried to step past him.

"Hey," he said, blocking my path. It was short and sarcastic -- a kind of "oh, you're just going to walk past me?!" kind of "hey." The kind of passive aggressive "hey" that I really, really hate.

"Hey," I replied. Again, non-committal. I smiled again and raised my eyebrows. I wanted to make him feel a little dumb. I wanted him to realize that standing in my way in the middle of a hallway at a house party when we hadn't come together and I was en route to the bathroom was fucking weird. I wanted him to get out of my way and I didn't want him to start anything.

"Having fun?"

"Taking a piss, actually, dude. If I can."

"Don't let me stop you, then."

"I won't. If you move?"

He wanted me to touch him. He wanted me to physically move him out of the way. He wanted physical contact because he'd told Natalie and Suzanne that I was rough or something. That we had a complicated, passionate relationship. He'd pulled this kind of shit before. I knew what he was up to. The second I touched him, it'd confirm everything that he'd told Natalie and Suzanne. I'd be confirming his lie. See, Josh always thought I was far more stupid than I actually was. I knew the two girls must be somewhere nearby; somewhere in the crowd of people. But I didn't want to look for them. Because if they saw me look at them, then if I didn't behave in the way Josh had told them I would, then he'd be able to say that it was because I'd seen them. 

By the way - the only thing that's worse than this complicated kind of high school nonsense existing in the first place is that I actually now understand how it works. 

Thanks, Josh.

Just at that moment, Virginia Reilly swept past and even Josh had to step aside. Virginia was so mean she made Regina George look like Mother Teresa. She was also, without doubt, Rory Masterton's best (girl) friend. I saw Josh eye the gap that he'd made when she asked him to move - the second she passed by, he tried to step back into the centre of the narrow hallway, blocking me again. But he couldn't, because, as ever, Rory was following in Virginia's wake. His hand -- those long, elegant, tapering fingers of his -- shot out from nowhere and deftly guided Joshua's torso back towards the wall. Rory now stood in the space that I wanted to get through. A small smile danced on his lips as he regarded Josh and I -- he was looking at us with slightly superior amusement. He was wearing a white shirt and dark jeans. He smelled, as always, absolutely incredible. If I hadn't been about to pee my pants, I'd have jizzed in them. The awkward life of an 18 year-old, I guess.

"Sorry, Josh, I just needed to get past," Rory said, in an impossibly polite tone that I saw instantly made Josh so angry he wanted to swallow his own chin.

"Me too," I said, quickly. 

"He needs to pee," interjected Josh, aggressively.

"How fascinating," Rory responded. He was so English it was unreal sometimes. "Well then, I'll let you past first, Sebastian - since it's an emergency." 

"Thanks, Rory," I said, as he pressed himself up against the other wall and I squeezed between him and Josh. What I did next was incredibly awkward and it definitely hurt Josh's feelings, but I was 18, I was smitten, I hadn't seen Rory all night and I didn't want him to disappear off into yet another 3 hour bitchathon with Virginia and Caroline. I thought, 'Fuck it,' and spoke, even though Josh was standing, literally, right behind me. Fuck it. "Dude, I'd stop and chat, but there's something I need to take care of."

"Your ankle?" Rory asked, still smiling. Still flirting!

"That'll come later," I winked. Josh couldn't see the wink, but I could feel him getting agitated. Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it. "Where'll you be, later?"

"Come find me," he said, easing past me. Little bitch was playing hard to get. That's okay. That's hot. I winked at him. I was feeling cocky. And a little drunk. We parted company and I made it into the bathroom at the end of the corridor before Josh could reinitiate -- or reignite -- conversation. I let out a long stream of piss and groaned. It feels fucking amazing when you empty after that big a build-up.

I emerged from the bathroom and there were people in a line outside; none of them were Rory and Josh. I said hey to a friend from my History class and went off in search of another drink.

*

"Hey, Seb!" 

I turned at the sound of Robbie's voice. He was outside, smoking with a few guys from the rugby team. I said hi to them all, but they meandered back inside and I sat down next to Robbie to shoot the breeze.

"Well," he asked, "how's your night? I'm so fucked when my parents get home."

"It's not that messy."

"True, but Mummy's a neat freak. Hit on Josh yet?"

"No," I answered. I sounded a bit harsh, which I shouldn't have been. I felt bad. Robbie was a good friend. "Sorry."

"Rory, then?"

I looked up at him and we exchanged a knowing look. "Alright, you got me."

"I knew it!" 

"He's so hot," I groaned. "And he's just ... I mean, Robbie -- help me out!"

Robbie stubbed out his cigarette. "Listen, bro, y'know that Rory's not the kind of guy who goes for one night stands, don't you? He's not like that. I just thought I'd let you know that. As a friend."

"I'm not like that, either," I said, defensively. Robbie smirked and looked at me as if to say 'are you serious?' "I didn't like any of those other guys, Robbie. Not really! They were just ... there."

Robbie looked momentarily taken aback. "But you really like Rory?"

"Yeah."

"Really?"

"Yeah! I can't stop thinking about him," I said. I hung my head ruefully and smiled a little. It was cheesy and pathetic, I knew that, but it was true. I was in full crush mode. I couldn't think about anything else. "Has he said anything about me?"

"He has, yeah."

"Robbie? Tell me!"

"Dude, he really likes you, too. He thinks you're funny and you're exactly the kind of guy he says he likes." I felt myself get a little light-headed, which is the point I realized that I must like Rory far more than I'd thought. "But..."

I landed on that. "But what?"

Robbie looked at me with that awkward look between guys when they know it's against the guy code to tell another dude not to be an asshole, but they have to because now it affects someone else that they love. "He doesn't want to get involved in the whole you-and-Josh thing, Seb. I mean, he really, really doesn't. As long as that's going on, he says he won't go near you. He thinks Josh is a psychopath who'll kill him as he sleeps if he goes anywhere near you."

"There is no 'me-and-Josh,'" I said. Even as I said it I knew how lame it sounded, given that you could still see the hicky I'd planted on Josh's neck from three days ago.

"Seb, c'mon."

I put my head in my hands. "Ugh, I know! It's so fucking annoying. Why can't I just keep my dick in pants and out of Josh's ass?!"

Robbie laughed. "He's a hotty, I guess, and he's a total slut. It's bound to happen." I loved Robbie in that moment. So hetero, so bro, so at ease in himself. Such a good friend. He could talk to anyone. He was a good guy. "But Rory's not," he said, "and he needs to be looked after."

His tone had changed. I have a little sister. I knew what the tone change meant; I knew what I was about to get. I was about to get the warning or "the talk" or whatever you want to call it. Robbie cleared his throat and looked at me. He was a handsome guy; especially when he was deadly earnest, like he was right now. 

"Seb, Rory and I met when we were four years old and I love him. He's my brother. Not like my brother - that guy IS my brother. And I love him. He doesn't deserve to be hurt and if you're serious about liking him, I think you two would be great together. But don't dick around with him and don't use the fact that you like to have sex as an excuse to keep Josh in the picture. I'm a guy - I feel your pain. I know how that kind of stuff happens. But you have to step up to the plate. He's a good guy, even if he doesn't always act like it. Don't fuck it up."

The breeze was cold and it blew through Robbie's garden. The trees rustled nearby and I sighed. He was right. Rory had a self-possession and an elegance which, even then, I knew was rare in an 18 year old. In the same way, I knew I had height and confidence that was rare, too. He didn't feel like a one night stand or something to drag out into long, annoying confusion like me and Josh. I wanted Rory all to myself. I felt Robbie looking at me and I squeezed his hand. "Thanks, dude."

"Anytime. Now, fuck off and go talk to him."

*

I weaved my way through the party guests and was preparing myself to do the best flirting of my life when, like the ghost of Christmas Annoying, Josh appeared in front of me with an über-belligerent expression on his face. He was too drunk now to keep up the perpetually easygoing façade he'd gone with all week. I was tipsy and determined to get to Rory. It wasn't a good combo for either of us.

"Can I talk to you?" he asked, aggressively. There wasn't anything passive about it this time. I'm not religious, but bumping into him right after Robbie's chat seemed like a sign or something. Better to get it over with now. 

"Sure," I answered. 

"Come in here," he said, pulling me into an empty laundry room. A couple of half-consumed bottles of Jack littered the drier. Having pulled me in, Josh wasn't letting go of my arm, so I gently extracted it, leant against the drier and crossed my legs.

"What do you want, Josh?"

"You know what." He looked miserable, but determined. I couldn't tell if the misery was real or not. Like the time he'd cried at his 18th birthday party about his friends. I couldn't tell if it was for attention or not. I didn't know, but my gut told me he was just a very good and very selfish actor. 

"We're not having sex again, Josh, and we're not going to date." I was being cold and, deep down, I knew that I was also being kind of cruel. But I had to be - this had to end. "You said it could just be casual, but it clearly can't be."

"It can!"

"It can't, Josh!"

"We're so good together."

"Only in sex, Josh," I reasoned. "Only in sex."

"What else matters?" he lied. I hoped he was lying. Or being stupid. Or drunk. I hoped, for his sake, he didn't really mean that. I hoped he didn't think sex was all there was.

"Personality, Josh. There's personality. And love. Friendship. A relationship. We can't have that, Josh, because we just don't get along with each other."

"I get along with you!" he retorted. He was lying again, or stupid, or drunk. Again.

"No, you don't! I annoy you more or less all the time. You don't like me. Not really. You think you do, but you don't. And it can never be just sex with you, Josh. You know that. C'mon, dude -- tell me you can see that? Look at us! We don't work." He swayed slightly. He looked upset. Deep down I knew that if there was another gay guy around -- one he actually got along with -- he'd never be doing this. But I was the only one he was crushing on right now. He hated Rory and he had very few gay friends. I was all there was for him to fixate on and I was realistic enough to know that. I wasn't special to him -- I was all there was. 

"It can just be fun," he whined. He was trying to be seductive. Sober, he could do it. Drunk, he couldn't. "We could do it now. Let's do it. Fuck me."

I felt mortified for him. I started to blush. For him. "No, Josh," I said, quietly. "I'm so sorry, but I don't want to. Please."

"Why?" he shouted. His eyes brimmed with tears. He hadn't looked this upset when I'd insulted both our personalities, but I realized that Josh was a pretty guy whose whole personality was caught up in being pretty. 

"Because I like someone else," I said - stupidly, idiotically and moronically thinking that it would make it better. Obviously, it didn't. Obviously, it made it ten times worse. The second I said it, Josh got a crazy look in his eyes and the word, "Rory?" was out of his mouth almost instantly. I deliberated for a minute. I wondered if telling him was a good idea, but I was feeling confrontational. Like I was proving it to someone and if I told Josh, it would force me to tell Rory tonight. It would spur things on. So I thought.

"Yes," I answered. "Rory. I really like him."

"Are you serious? Why? He's an arsehole!" Josh hit back. His eyes swimming with tears. "He's an ugly, fat, evil, stupid, mean, stuck up shithead! Why him?"

"He is not ugly and he's not fat!" I retorted. Before remembering that 'stupid', 'evil' and 'mean' were things I should also have commented on. "He's none of those things, Josh. You don't even know him."

"Neither do you!"

"Josh..."

"Do you think he's hotter than me?" 

It was a terrible question and probably one of the most awkward of my life. The truth was that, objectively, I gotta say that Josh was, and is, actually technically better-looking than Rory. Josh was very, very sexy and, like I said, he had the whole Zac Efron thing down pat. Rory was handsome, sure, but impartially Josh won on the technicalities. And in my idiot head, I thought that if I conceded that point -- if I gave him that -- it might be kinder. It might make it easier. I didn't know it would unleash the seven hells of Rory Masterton on me.

"No," I said. "I don't. You're..."

"See! You think he's ugly. You know he's not hot."

"That isn't what I said," I reasoned. "You're hot, Josh, yeah, but we've nothing in common and Rory ..."

"What?" he sneered.

"Rory makes me smile." I knew I sounded dopey, but I didn't care. He did. And Josh didn't. Josh launched himself at me and kissed me on the lips. I pushed him away and stepped aside. "No, Josh," I said. "I'm sorry, but -- no. I'll see you on Monday."

I walked out of the room and didn't look back. I felt like an asshole, but it was the right thing to do. It was. I think maybe Josh cried when I left -- although knowing him he may just have thrown a hissy fit and run off to find Natalie and Suzanne. Who knows? Anyway, I stepped out into the hallway and looked around. It was empty, but the kitchen was nearby and it was buzzing. I looked in and saw Virginia, Caroline, Judith and Claudia talking together -- the 'mean girls', Rory's friends. He wasn't with them.

"Have you guys seen, Rory?" I asked. As a rugby player I just about had enough social credibility to initiate conversation with them without them spitting cobra venom at me. 

Virginia nodded, but didn't really look at me. "He went home," she said. "He wasn't feeling well."

"When?"

"Just now," she answered. Slightly irritably. Repeated questions always riled Her Imperial Majesty. 

"Did he get a cab?"

"No. He walked."

I looked towards the front door, grabbed my coat from the rails and walked out. I still had my buzz from the beer and I wanted to talk to him. And talking away from the party might actually be the best thing, actually. Plus, I didn't want him walking home alone on country roads in the middle of the dark. The slightly chilly air hit me as I swung the door open and stepped out into the Kent countryside air. I threw my jacket on and started walking.




Rory and Sebastian Ch. 03



*

I caught up with him about fifteen minutes later -- ten minutes or so from his house and fifteen more from mine. That's an irrelevant detail, I guess. I forgot he was 6'1 and he was walking fast. I eventually saw him up ahead, beneath one of the few and far between streetlights. I caught up with him and the wind had started to blow more heavily. It was cold now and he was only wearing the same white shirt he'd worn at Robbie's party. He had no coat. I thought about giving him mine. I was going to. I called out his name.

"Rory!" 

He turned to look at me. He looked pissed. "Hello, Sebastian."

I slowed down from the slow jog I'd started in the final push to catch up with him. "Ice ice baby," I said, half-mocking how cold his tone had been. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing. I'm just not as good looking as Joshua Peterly. That's all."

I was standing next to him. Three inches taller than him and looking down into his big, beautiful, angry eyes. "Fuck," I said. No point in denying it. No point in insulting him by denying it. "Fuck, you heard that?"

"Yes," he shot back. His icy calm was beginning to shatter; the cold detachment was beginning to unravel. In all the years ahead of us when we were together nothing was to turn me on more than watching him get flustered and that night was one of the few times when it didn't arouse me. I could just see that he was genuinely upset. And humiliated. And that he was already hating himself for giving this much away. I took a step closer to him. We were practically touching. He was shivering -- from a mixture of the cold and from the rage, I think.

"I'm sorry you heard that," I said, gently. I felt protective of him. I wanted to put my arms around him. But I knew I needed to apologize first. "Josh is a very attractive guy. Physically."

"And I'm not."

"No!" He hadn't even asked it as a question - he'd simply stated it like it was a fact. "No! Rory, no. Listen to me: no. That is not true. It isn't. And it's not what I said, either."

"He did."

"Well, he's a douche lord," I half-shouted. "He's jealous and he's being an asshole. Don't listen to what Josh thinks." I realized I should have called him 'Joshua'. 'Josh' was too intimate and I needed to start putting distance between us in Rory's mind. "He asked if I liked you because you were better looking and I said no, that wasn't why. He's jealous because I like you, Rory. As in, I like-like you. I wanna ... I really like you and I'm sorry. I think you're hot and I think you're funny and I really like you and I'm sorry. And please don't let that stupid convo with Josh -- Joshua -- mess this up. I like you, Rory. I really do."

A drizzle of rain began to fall. He didn't notice. I did. It dropped onto his eyelids and forehead. He was mesmerizing. He was never going to be as classically beautiful like someone like Joshua and he would never be as rugged as me or the guys on the team, but he was striking. He really was and I could never explain it to other people. I guess that's what love is. His lip quivered slightly and I realized, like a punch in the gut, that he was actually genuinely devastated to have been called ugly. It was more than just being upset. 

"I don't think you're ugly," I soothed. "No one could ever think that."

"Joshua does."

"No one normal could," I said. Hoping he'd laugh. He did, but he didn't mean it. He was starting to be polite again; he was rebuilding the exterior and I didn't want him to. "I really like you," I repeated, starting to feel nervous that he hadn't said anything back. What if he didn't like me? After all, he mightn't like me. You know, he probably didn't. I mean, how often had we actually spoken?

"No, you don't," he said, quickly. It hurt.

"Yes, I do. I want to take you out on a date. I'd like to take you to dinner some night, properly, this week. Monday? Let's do Monday? I mean it. Let's go out on Monday."

"Looking for your Monday lay, then?"

I got mad. First of all, I'm not a slut. I don't sleep around and I've slept with far fewer people than half the rugby team has. And I am not some sex addict. Plus, I'd just told this guy that I wanted to date him and that I really liked him. "Fuck you," I snapped. "Fuck you, Rory. That is a dickish thing to say." Did my voice just crack? Please God, say it didn't crack when I said that! "Isn't that what you do?" he said. He was regaining ground. He'd found a way to make me feel as bad as I'd made him feel. Only difference was, I'd done mine accidentally. Rory was doing his on purpose. 

"Isn't what Sebastian Carson likes to do? Hump and dump?"

"It's not what I wanted to do with you!"

"I know it's not. That's because I'm too fucking ugly!"

"How the hell would you know what I do and who I am, Rory? The only time you've ever bothered your sweet ass to fucking talk to me was this week because we were the only two who weren't taking gym class. You're an asshole to talk to me like this. I'm sorry that you overheard what I said to Josh, but it was not meant as an insult. I think you are so fucking attractive and I like you. I've said that. I still really fucking like you. I've never had a crush like this. I've thought about you all week..."

"Even when you were having sex with Joshua Peterly?"

"Yes! Even then! Maybe that's a weird thing to say, but I was. I fucking was. And I like you so much and I'm sorry, but right now, you are being a dick, Rory. You're being an asshole. If you don't like me, just say it, but don't stand there and pretend like I'm some sort of fucking sexpest who just moves from one guy to the other. I don't like Joshua. I told him at Robbie's tonight that I didn't want to see him anymore because I wanted to ask you out on a date and that's why he got so fucking psychotic on me. I'm sorry, Rory! I didn't mean to hurt you, but you're doing it to me on purpose and that's messed up."

The rain had become heavier and our eyes were locked. His shirt was clinging to him. He had a nice body. And he was shaking from the cold. I took my jacket off and went to give it to him. As I did it, it was like a light switch had gone on. Or off. All of a sudden he realized he was standing there with his shirt clinging to him and a look of blind panic shot across his face. It was then, in that moment, that I should have realized what it was. I should have seen it then -- I should have seen that thing that was to haunt him down the years -- that thing, that fear, that was gripping him that night. The fear and the self-loathing that had prompted him to leave a party because someone called him ugly; the fear that had propelled him into attacking me, belittling me, insulting me, crushing my feelings; the fear that would, for years, make him nuzzle into me, then pull away from me. I should have seen that it wasn't vanity that made him freak out at what Josh said that night. It wasn't vanity or a mean girl syndrome that made him lash out and panic. It was a deep, intransigent and terrible loathing of his own appearance. It was a fear that I would work for years to eradicate -- a fear that I would come to live with as well; it was a fear that he was fat, that he was hideous, that he was ugly. It was a crippling fear that all his charm, all his grace, all his intelligence would never, ever be enough to cover up the fact that, as far as he was concerned, he was ugly. It was a fear that ate away at him. It governed every waking moment of his life. It would take years of love, of teasing, of sex, and cuddles, and hugs, and fighting, to break him away from it. To make him see his life in a different way. I should have seen something of it then -- I should have seen the panic - the sheer blind panic that shot through his entire body when he realized that the shirt was clinging to him. Clinging to his every svelte inch that he was convinced was flabby and unattractive. I'd have liked him even if he had been. Even if he had looked like he thought he did, I would still have liked him. I really do believe that. I'd still have fallen in love with him. 

He stepped off the road and under a tree. It was dark there and the rain was becoming torrential. He was shaking and I followed him. I was shaking now too. I put my coat over him and he flinched as I did so. "Don't be mad," I said softly. "Please."

"I'm not mad," he whispered through chattering teeth. "What you said was true. I'm not mad, Sebastian."

"It's what he said," I responded, leaning against the trunk. "Not what I said. And it's not true." I moved around. Rory was against the trunk now and I put my hand next to his head, leaning in. "Rory, are you going to make me repeat myself?"

He looked at me, blankly. He was cuter when, for a rare moment, he hadn't a fucking clue what to say. I sighed and smiled. "Do you like me? Do I have to say it again?" He shrugged. "Well, I really like you," I said again, as I leant in. 

I pressed my lips up against his and he pressed back slightly, into the trunk. I kept pressing down and slowly his mouth opened. I felt his body relax against the trunk and I pressed up against him. The wind was blowing, the rain was sloshing down around us and I was freezing -- but I was having my first kiss with Rory Masterton. And I was happy. I stopped the kiss and pulled away. I gave him a little peck on the lips and smiled.

"You're beautiful," I told him. And then I kissed him again. Properly.



Rory and Sebastian Ch. 04



-- As with all installments in the 'Rory and Sebastian' series, the characters are above the age of 18 at the time of the story --

*

I pulled off my wet t-shirt and jeans, stripped off my boxers and changed into some sleeping shorts. I thought about getting a shower to warm up, but I was too tired. I dried myself off, turned off my bedroom light and climbed in under the covers. It felt nice and warm and I stretched a bit. I hadn't put on a t-shirt to sleep in, but I figured I'd be okay. I still had my phone clutched in my hand and I sent a text to Rory.

TONIGHT WAS REALLY NICE :-) x

My eyes were starting to close from their tiredness, but I waited a few minutes until he wrote back.

YEAH. IT WAS. SORRY I FREAKED OUT :-/ xx

He put two x's and I'd spent enough time in Europe to know how complex the text-x's-grading system was. I texted back.

THAT'S FINE. IT WAS JUST THE TWO OF US. IT'S FINE! SEE YOU MONDAY IN SCHOOL AND THEN MONDAY EVENING FOR DINNER. TEXT TOMORROW xxx

My eyes closed slowly and I smiled as I went off to sleep. I was acting like a love-sick dope, but I didn't care. I really liked him.

*

School on Monday was surreal. Physics class flew by pretty quickly and I felt distracted in it, even though I really liked our teacher and I could tell she was getting annoyed at me. Even rugby practise didn't seem to be real. My whole mind kept turning on Rory. I hadn't seen him all day, except once from a distance when he passed by the window of my classroom with Virginia. I don't think he saw me. He didn't look any different. But then, why should he? I guess I didn't. On the outside. 

In the cafeteria at lunch, Josh kept giving me filthy stares and he kept whispering to his two buddies, Natalie and Suzanne. To be completely honest, I had trouble telling the two of them apart, but since we'd all been to school together for, like, five years, it was now far too awkward to ask which one was actually Natalie and which one was Suzanne. Such a question would also necessitate going anywhere near Josh again, which I had absolutely no intention of doing unless an unexpected nuclear holocaust compelled me to. And even then, I might be tempted to take my chance with the radiation. 

Josh's dirty looks suited me perfectly -- because it meant he was being angry this week, rather than clingy. I know the way I'm talking about him makes me sound like an asshole, but I didn't like him. I still don't. And I don't trust him. I was mad about what he'd said about Rory on Saturday and I couldn't be bothered with his drama anymore. Rory wasn't in the cafeteria, but he never was. He usually ate on the steps with Virginia, Caroline, Judith and Claudia. I sat with a few guys off the rugby team and Robbie kept giving me cheeky looks and smiling. He knew about tonight -- Rory must have told him. I liked that. It meant he was talking about me.

ARE WE STILL ON FOR TONIGHT? I texted at lunch. I CAN PICK YOU UP AT 7, IF YOU LIKE? Xx

Rory: YEAH, SURE. :-) I CAN GET A LIFT THOUGH -- IF THAT'S EASIER FOR YOU? Xx

YEAH, IT WOULD BE EASIER. BUT IT WOULDN'T BE BETTER. BCUZ I WANT TO PICK YOU UP. AT 7? Xx

Rory: COOL! YES. WHAT SHOULD I WEAR? Xx

I COULD ANSWER SOMETHING REALLY DIRTY RIGHT NOW, RORY. BUT I'M RESTRAINING MYSELF. JUST SO YOU KNOW.

Rory: I MEAN, WHAT RESTAURANT ARE WE GOING TO, DICKHEAD? IS IT REALLY FANCY? X

NO, PRINCESS. WE'RE JUST GOING TO GET PIZZA. SO JEANS AND SWEATER'S COOL. I THOUGHT IT'D BE COOL TO BE RELAXED. DID YOU WANT TO GO SOMEWHERE REALLY NICE? UP TO YOU!! Xx

I panicked slightly that I hadn't thought of that. I should be taking him out somewhere really nice. Shouldn't I? Had I fucked up? He texted back almost instantly, though, and I breathed a sigh of relief when he said that pizza sounded great and he was excited about tonight. I grinned so hard and wide that I practically split my fucking face open. When I looked up from my phone, Robbie was looking at me and smiling a smug, knowing smile. He winked and laughed to himself. I flipped him off affectionately and texted Rory back the words, ME TOO xx.

*

Dinner with Rory that night was wonderful. What made it that way was how relaxed it was. He was wearing a fitted black cashmere sweater and his hair was freshly washed. He looked like a cross between pretty and handsome. And he made me laugh. A lot. I teased him about his friends; he teased me about mine. It was funny. So fucking funny. There was a point where he did an impression of Dominic Kirchner, a team mate of mine from the rugby squad, who basically lumbers around the school like he's too big for his own body. He's a machine on the pitch, but not exactly the brightest guy off it. And Rory had tears streaming down my face with laughter when he started impersonating him. Like pretty much all of Rory's sense of humour, it was mean but not too mean. It was hilarious. He's still the funniest guy I've ever met, when he wants to be.

We split a pizza, but I ate most of it. When I'd finished my half, he looked at me and smiled. "Have a bit of my half, Sebastian. You look like you're about to eat your own fist."

"No, no," I demurred, politely. It was a date, for God's sake, I couldn't eat my date's food. Could I? "No, it's cool."

"You're so hungry! I'm not."

I hesitated and then took a slice. "Yeah, okay. If you're sure?"

"No, I changed my mind," he said severely. "That's so fucking rude of you, Sebastian. That's my half of the pizza." I froze in momentary horror, before he laughed: "I'm kidding! Haha. Eat up!"

"Asshole," I grinned. He was sexy when he was like this. Cocky and sexy.

He took a sip of his water and I cleared my throat. "Look, Rory, before this goes any further, I just want to say, again, that I really, really am sorry about what happened on Saturday night. With Josh." Instantly, Rory's guard was back up and his posture straightened slightly. He'd been jolted out of his relaxed state. That annoyed me, but I wanted to apologize to him, properly. Soberly. I needed to. He deserved that, even if he didn't want it. "It was not meant the way it sounded..."

"I know that," he interjected, coldly and tersely.

"I don't think you do," I said, firmly. "You were pretty upset. Which is completely understandable and natural. But, I did not say that I thought you were ugly, unattractive or anything even remotely like that. I think you are really, really cute and I do really, really like you. I know I said all this on Saturday, but I was a little tipsy and I just wanted to reiterate it for you, sober. Because I want you to know that and I don't want to play any games with you. I like you, Rory, and I think you like me, too."

He looked at me and bit his lip, lightly. He was nervous, but touched. I could tell. "I do," he said, with a shy smile. "I do like you, Sebastian."

"Like-like?" I asked. I needed clarification.

He nodded and smiled. He was so fucking cute. I just wanted to hug him. Then fuck him. I'd never felt this way about anyone before. I reached out across the table and stroked his hand. "You're fucking beautiful, Rory," I whispered. He blushed and looked down at the remains of the pizza.

"So are you," he said after a moment.

*

That night I kissed Rory Masterton for the second time in my life. As I dropped him off, I leant in and kissed him on the lips. It was dark out and no one could see us. Our tongues met and at first it was so, I dunno - tender, I guess. It was like we were sealing how close we'd become just in the course of our conversations over dinner; how much better we'd gotten to know one another. 

Then, it all got hot and heavy. I felt my cock start to twitch and swell inside my pants and Rory's grip tightened around my neck. Our seatbelts and the gearstick got in the way and I started to think that if I took things too fast he'd always think of me as the guy who was looking for an easy lay. Isn't that what he'd accused me of on Saturday? But if I pulled away, would he think I was doing it because I thought he wasn't as attractive as Joshua? My boner was pressing through the thin fabric of my boxers and against the denim of my jeans. Thoughts were bouncing through my head -- most of them contradictory -- when Rory solved the problem by pulling away. There was a little pop noise as we separated and he looked flushed and reluctant to stop. 

"I should go," he said -- slightly out of breath. 

"Yeah," I agreed. "Just so you know, if I didn't want this to become something serious, I'd be trying to get inside your pants right now."

He giggled. "Thanks."

"You'd let me," I teased.

"Of course I would. I'd love to see what that ankle of yours was capable of."

I laughed. He had an answer for everything. "It's a machine, Rory -- let me tell ya."

"So I hear," he smiled, un-clicking his seatbelt. "And I'd like this to go further, too, Sebastian. I really would."

"Good," I said, leaning him to peck him on the lips once more. "Now, get out of here before I change my mind."

He kissed me back. It was nice. "Thanks for tonight. See you tomorrow?"

"I'll be texting you as soon as I get in, dumbass."

He climbed out of the car and I perved it his ass as he went. I waited until he'd disappeared behind his gates before I drove off. I beat off about him again that night and fell asleep smiling for the second time in a week.



Rory and Sebastian Ch. 05



-- This part of the story is told from Rory's POV, rather than Sebastian's, like all the others. Which was a bit of a challenge for me. All the main characters are 18 or above --



Maybe I was being stupid, but there was a crease in my school shirt that just would not go away. It was so intensely and profoundly irritating. It was one little flaw that I knew I'd see every time I looked in the mirror that day. I tutted and looked up at my hair; it, at least, looked fine. Which is about as good as I could expect from it, I suppose. My teeth were straight and white – kind of like my embittered, late great-grandfather's vision of the ideal population. I cleared my throat and swallowed. 

Getting ready for school was an ordeal at the best of times. Like a vanity-fuelled OCD of constant checking. But it had become ten times worse since realising that I had a boyfriend to impress when I got there. 'No, you don't,' snapped the sensible little voice in my head. 'You don't have a boyfriend. You have a guy who took you out to dinner, once, and kissed you, twice.' That voice then went on to remind me of the less-than-sexy psycho meltdown I'd taken in front of my proto-boyfriend on Saturday night, because some slutty bitch-twink he'd been involved with had called me fat. As bad seductions went, it probably had to rank up there with Adolf Hitler's marriage proposal in the bunker.

Falling so hard for Sebastian had definitely not been intentional, nor had the rapid build-up to our first date. If that's what it was. It is what was, idiot – it was quite clearly a date. I do this; I second guess myself all the time. He called it a date; therefore it was a date. Don't over-think things. Neediness is annoying – do not embrace it. If Sebastian wanted neediness, he'd still be the Whore-Bitch Joshua. The problem with this unexpected crush of frankly epic proportions was that, until sometime last week, I'd held a generally low opinion of Sebastian. When I thought about him at all, which was very rarely, I thought of him as this kind of cocky jock, who seemed totally out of place at an English school, and whose sole interesting feature was that he was the only (openly) gay member of the school's rugby team. I'd spoken to him, maybe, a dozen times in my whole life and never in any great detail. I knew people thought he was really good looking. And he was. Is. He is legitimately stunning, in a sort of rugged, handsome, masculine sort of way. It's his confidence that makes it. Well, that and the muscles, the dirty blond hair and the brown eyes. He's actually a beautiful man. Not beautiful in a pretty boy way. He's a man. He's really... I don't know. He's solid and he's kind and he's infuriating and wonderful, all at the same time. I can say now that Sebastian is the great love of my life and I that felt that about him, genuinely, very early on. 

But not, of course, on the day after the first date. Even teenage love moves slightly slower than that. On that Tuesday, I was struggling, a little, with a deep urge to see him and a niggling fear that I didn't want to be his next Joshua. I might even last less time than Joshua had – after all, Joshua was stunningly good looking. Provided that you didn't look too closely at him. If you did, you'd soon realise that there was no light behind the bambi-eyes, apart from the special gleam endowed by his latent insanity. I'm being mean, yes, but I really, really hate Joshua Peterly. 

I put my blazer on and forced myself to look away from the reflection. There was no point doing that to myself, not today – this was as good as it was going to get. I might as well just accept what God has given me and work with it. Do not obsess. Do not obsess. Do not obsess... 'do not obsess' is the quiet little mantra of crazy, tapping over and over in my head like a neurotic metronome. 

My phone beeped and I looked at it as I walked down the stairs. It wasn't from Sebastian; it was from Virginia. Her dad was about to confiscate her phone (harsh) and I was bringing her in my spare one. Sorry, Papa Reilly – we've outmanoeuvred you on this one!

*

I saw Sebastian as soon as I walked up to the school entrance. He was standing waiting for me outside the foyer. He had one hand in his pocket and he was eating an apple. The second he saw me, he tossed it into the bin and smiled. I thought I saw him jolt forward slightly, as if he was considering walking over to me. But he thought better of it and made me come to him. He liked to play games, which was okay, because I did too. He was clever, which I liked, and slightly teasing and mocking, which I liked even more - even though I never thought I would. I took myself too seriously. I knew that. So did he. He was good for me, in that respect.

'My phone isn't working,' he said, instead of a hello. 'That's why I didn't text you this morning.'

'Oh,' I shrugged. 'I hadn't noticed.'

'Liar,' he smirked. We were standing outside the school doors staring at each other. He really was tall. He smelt nice, too. Freshly-washed; like he always did. 'You're such a little fucking bitch-liar.'

No-one had ever called me something so vile and said it in such an affectionate tone. I smiled at him and put my hand on my forehead to shield my eyes. The sun was blinding today. An autumnal sun - bright, but not too warm. 'You're so charming.'

'I know,' he said. 'So, dinner tonight?'

'Yes,' I answered, without even thinking. I thought he'd tease me about how quickly I'd answered, but he didn't. He just gave a smile and nodded; he was pleased. Clearly and obviously pleased. 'What time?' I asked.

'I'll pick you up at seven.'

'Do you want to maybe go see a movie?' I said. It was more of a reflex than anything else; there wasn't anything I particularly wanted to see. He hesitated for a moment before answering, which I took to mean he hadn't really wanted to see a movie. But he said yes and said he'd check the times. We walked in together and I saw Virginia and Caroline staring over at me, analysing what was going on. They'd known about the date, of course, and I'd already spoken to Virginia last night on the phone about how well it'd gone. They smiled politely at Sebastian, as I fell in with them to go to our registration class. I was relieved they didn't hate him or disapprove. That would've been a nightmare. I handed Virginia over the replacement phone and the conversation turned to her father's clear case of psychosis in his mega-harsh phone confiscation punishment. Caroline called it a 'theatre of cruelty,' which, at eighteen, I thought was a bang-on accurate way to describe anyone who'd try to make someone live without a mobile phone.

*

Robbie grilled me in class that afternoon, asking for every detail. It was easier to talk to him than to the girls and I told him everything about the date. He teased me, a lot, that it hadn't gone further and he called me a cock tease. I laughed and blushed,. 'He really likes you, you know,' Robbie said, earnestly. 'He likes everything about you, Rory.' He reached under the table and squeezed my hand: 'Trust me, he does.' 

I smiled weakly and squeezed his hand back. I felt like muttering a silent Hail Mary to prevent myself freaking out. I didn't know where these feelings of mounting panic came from, but every now and then they'd just crash over me, like a wave I didn't see coming. Robbie squeezed again: 'Enjoy this,' he said, firmly. If there was anyone I could ever possibly have loved more than Sebastian, it would have been Robbie. I took a deep breath and nodded. Our hands separated and I returned to listening to what the particularly incompetent teacher at the front of the class was talking about. I steadied myself. There was no reason to feel nervous. Sebastian was a good guy and, even looking at it impartially, I knew Robbie must be right – Sebastian must like me, given the way he was behaving. I shouldn't feel anything but happiness at this; there should be no feeling of panic. The tightness in my chest would go away, I told myself. I just had to concentrate hard enough on making myself relax.

*

Unfortunately, I hadn't counted on running into Joshua Peterly in the first floor boys' bathroom right before lunch that day. I was washing my hands and wondering if I could borrow Claudia's anti-bacterial hand gel when I got into the cafeteria, when I felt someone staring at me. It happens – most English private schools are pretty open-minded, but it's relative. The older kids, i.e. people my age, generally consider it uncool to be homophobic, but if you're 'out' in high school, you're still going to get stared at by the juniors. I suppose they're too young to realise that gay people actually exist outside of 'Glee.' I glanced to my right, assuming I'd see some awkward early teen, but I didn't. It was someone who had the emotional maturity of a pre-teen, unhappily trapped in an eighteen year-old's body: Joshua Peterly. He was gazing at me with frankly sizzling loathing.

Jesus, Mary and Saint George could come streaming out of Heaven before I would voluntarily start a conversation with him. I turned off the tap and made for the hand-dryer.

'How's Seb?' he asked. 

'He's fine,' I answered, neutrally. I didn't turn round to look at him again and I didn't point out that "Sebastian" is a beautiful name and "Seb" is a hideous one. Prick. 

'Fucked him, yet?' 

I turned to look at him and arched an eyebrow. He was vulgar, vile and mortifying. 'I don't really think that's any of your business,' I replied, in my iciest voice. 'From what I've heard, whatever you and he had is over. Luckily for "Seb."'

'You haven't fucked yet?' he said, with an incredulous laugh. 'We had sex the first time we ever partied together. He fucked me in Robbie Fitzpatrick's garden shed.' 

I felt sick with jealousy. The image of the two of them going at it made me want to anti-bac my own brain, but I'd be damned before I let that show on my face in front of Joshua. 'How romantic,' was all I said. I tried to sound condescending; belittling. I'm pretty sure I succeeded.

'You must be doing something really wrong if he doesn't even want to have sex with you,' Josh answered, 'I mean, it's Seb, for fuck's sake. What's wrong with you?'

His eyes travelled up and down my body and I know, for a fact, that they hovered on my stomach. He was implying I was fat. I knew what that look meant. I'd seen it before. Joshua knew he was much better looking than I was and that was why he and Sebastian had had so much sex together. A part of my brain told me that Sebastian and I had only gone on one date and that there was therefore no earthly reason why we should have tumbled into bed together. Nor was there any good reason to ever take dating advice from someone like Joshua Peterly. But, still, it bothered me and I knew what he was implying. Too fat, or too ugly, to fuck. 

I felt my hands start to shake and I clutched them together behind my back, clasping down hard on them until they held still. Dignity. Dignity. Dignity. Do not freak out.

'I don't know what's "wrong" with me, Joshua, but considering that I wasn't the one who threw myself at a guy in Robbie Fitzpatrick's laundry room and begged him to have sex with me, only to be rejected so that guy could run off into the night after somebody else, I would say you should be asking yourself that question. Not me.'

His face flushed with rage. It was only time I'd ever seen him look genuinely ugly and I was thrilled. 'Now, I'm going to go, because I'm afraid I'll catch herpes from your breath.' And with that, I turned on my heel and left the bathroom.

*

Sebastian and I held hands for the first time that night, the whole way through the movie. I think he remembers the night we slept together for the first time as a kind of anniversary; I remember that night. My hand started to get sweaty about fifteen minutes in and I was horrified, before he leant in and whispered in my ear, 'It's cute that you're nervous.' And laughed. He was teasing me again, but I relaxed and the clamminess went away. I tried not to look at him too often in the weird silvery half-light of the movie theatre, but once I did glance up. Out of the corner of his eye, he must've sense the movement; he turned, too, to look at me and smiled. It was a cocky smile - confident and flirtatious. It was Sebastian's smile. I think I've seen few people in my life who were as completely at ease in their own skin as he was. He kind of inhabited how tall he was – owned it - and owned his weird polo player-meets-surfer blond, chiselled looks. That was an inarticulate description of him. I'm sorry; he has that affect on me.

We made out again in my driveway after the movies and I felt the same instant chemistry and the same slight sense of breathlessness. I tried to put what Joshua had said, or implied, out of my head and I didn't tell Sebastian about it, because I knew that he'd go ape-shit over the whole thing. I didn't want him to get in trouble and I didn't want there to be any more gossip about the school's big ole gay love triangle. Claudia and Virginia had already stomped down two sets of rumours that I'd given Sebastian head at Robbie's party. The two of us ate lunch together on Thursday and went for a walk and dinner on Friday night. I tackled him about not seeming too keen for the movie idea back on Tuesday, 'That's because you can't talk in a movie theatre, baby,' he shot back, with a wink. My heart contracted with happiness and I bowed my head to hide the smile. We made out quite a bit, but his hands never strayed south of the Mason-Dixon Line. I tried to tell myself that he was just being respectful. After all, I'd been the one who'd practically called him a slut on Saturday night and I myself honestly didn't want things to move too fast – in that way. Not yet, anyway. I was eighteen and still slightly nervous about the whole thing. But another part of me wondered why he hadn't at least tried and the things Joshua had said, or implied, niggled in the back of my head. Sometimes, they blared.

He came over to my house on Saturday, when my parents had driven up to London for the day. I wish I could remember what we talked about, but it was nothing specific. It just flowed, continually. It was so, so easy to talk to him. He'd found the perfect balance between jocular teasing, sentimentality and earnestness. At one point he started talking to me about a book he was reading on the Spanish Inquisition and why he didn't agree with half of what the historian was saying. It sounds snobby, maybe, but I was genuinely taken aback at how erudite he was and how smart, too. At times, looking at him, listening to him and smelling him, the words 'whole package' kept blaring in my head, like crazy little Vegas lights. 'I'm going to marry him,' I thought at one stage. Which was funny, for two reasons – the first because I was right and didn't know it; the second because I'd properly known him for just over a week and was clearly mentally deranged to even think those words, just because he could talk about sixteenth century attitudes to heresy and racial diversity in full, cogent sentences.

We'd agreed to go down to the pub to meet Robbie and a few of the guys at eight-thirty. At eight, I bounced upstairs to get ready. Sebastian waited downstairs, before coming up when I called him. He stood in my doorway and leant against the frame. 'I'd just like to point out that I didn't come up here while you were half naked and try to molest you,' he joked. 'I think that deserves a blowjob or something, Rory.'

I turned to look at him over my shoulder, dabbing on some cologne, and laughed. 'Yeah, I'll get right on that, rapey.'

He came up behind me and snaked his hands around my waist from behind, which meant that it was time for me to breathe in. 'You know,' he said, in my ear, 'if he wasn't such a good friend, I'd be trying to persuade you not to go to the pub tonight so we could stay in.' He kissed my neck and I prayed in my head that I wouldn't immediately have an orgasm, or breathe out. Both would result in mortification. A tiny bit of his tongue slipped out from between his lips and grazed my neck. Ordinarily, I know I'd have shuddered with desire but I was holding myself so rigid, no pun intended, so that I wouldn't breathe out and let him feel my stomach. 

'Are you okay?' he asked, pulling away slightly but keeping his hands where they were.

'Yeah, yeah,' I said, airily. I felt his arms start to loosen, in momentary uncertainty.

'Am I... eh.... am I being too pervy, or something, Rory?' His arms were still contracting in and out slightly, as if he didn't quite know what to do. I hated myself. A crashing great big tidal wave of self-loathing came out of nowhere and broke all over my head. I shouldn't make him feel like this. I spun round to face him and stroked his face. I don't know why I did it, but he looked upset and embarrassed. I'd never seen him like that. 

'No!' I said, sincerely. 'No, you're not. Not at all. I don't think you're slutty or pervy, at all.'

'Well, that's not true,' he said, 'If you remember what you said on Saturday night.'

'I was angry, Sebastian. Honestly, I truly, deeply, genuinely, one hundred percent don't think that you're pervy or promiscuous or weird or annoying or anything. I don't think bad things of you.'

A shy, pleased smile lit up his face and he kissed me. 'I don't think bad things of you, either.'

I nuzzled into him and felt that he had a semi. 'Sorry,' he said.

'Don't be,' I giggled. 'Slut.'

'That's me. You've got a slutty-ass boyfriend, big guy.'

I jolted and looked up at him. 'Have I?'

'I mean, if you want. Wait, fuck it – that was lame. "If you want." Lame. Wait. Will you ... be my boyfriend? Officially, exclusively, just us – all that. Will you? ... Please.' He kissed me again and I nodded. 'Yes,' I said. My voice sounded soft and a little breathless. Evidently, the question meant a lot more to me than even I'd realised. He looked into my eyes and, for one second, I didn't think or care about anything or anyone else in the world. 

'Thank you,' he sighed, before leaning into kiss me again, properly. His tongue gently parted my lips and I backed up against my dresser. The kiss turned passionate, quickly; there was no gap between us and I felt myself get hard, too. All thought had stopped; it was pure, feral instinct. I trailed my hand down to his ass. He pressed against me. I wanted this – I wanted him. Somehow. Anyhow. His hand began to press up and under my sweater and the moment stopped. Reality came back and I pushed him away the moment I realised his fingers were on my stomach.

'What?' he asked, breathless and clearly a little pissed.

'We'll be late,' I said, instinctively. I didn't look at him.

'Do you...' He stepped back in towards me, looking at me. Confusion was replaced by realisation. I'd forgotten he was smart. I'd forgotten he was observant. 'Rory, do you think you're fat?'

I still didn't look at him. I could hear the concern in his voice. He sounded like Robbie. 'I mean, I suppose everyone could stand to lose a few pounds,' I said nonchalantly. I tried to step past him. He stepped in front of me.

'No. They couldn't. And you, specifically, couldn't.'

I looked at him, mockingly, pretending to think it was all a joke. He didn't play along.

'I'm serious,' he said, firmly. 'You're thin, Rory. You're lovely. There's no fat anywhere on you. Rory, listen to me.' He pressed me up against the dresser and I felt intimidated by him. Intimidated, dominated, aroused. 'Rory, fucking look at me.'

I looked back at him again and his eyes had that look I'd come to know, hate and love in Robbie – concern, anger and love, all at the same time. Sebastian kept pressing until I was backed into the dresser again and his body – that solid wall of muscle had me completely trapped. He pulled both my hands down in front of me, clasped them with one of his, and then put his other hand back up under my top. I couldn't recoil because I had room to manoeuvre. I couldn't struggle, because he had my hands clasped. I just had to stand there and let him do what he wanted. He held his palm down, firmly, against the bare skin of my stomach and I felt myself gasp. I was breathing in, desperately, but I couldn't do it for much longer. 




Rory and Sebastian Ch. 05



To my fury, two streams of tears poured out of my eyes and ran right down my face. He kept holding his hand there and eventually, I breathed out. 

'See?' he said, softly. 'Nothing there. No real change. No fat. Nothing.' 

Two more streams came out of the eyes and down my face. He let go of my hands and took his own away from my stomach. He leant down and in towards me. He kissed the tears. His hands came up and he wiped them away properly.

'I'm sorry,' I whispered, humiliated beyond my wildest nightmares. 'I'm so sorry.'

'For what?' he said, his lips against my cheek. 'Feelings?'

'This,' I gestured, helplessly. 'It's so embarrassing.'

'It's just us, Rory. Just you and me,' he kissed my neck. 'You're so beautiful and even if you weren't, I'd feel this way.' He kissed my neck again and again. I put my arms around him and we pressed together again. He held me and I forced myself to breathe, as if there was no stomach and no-one there to impress. 

'That's it,' he whispered, softly. 'Just breathe.'



Rory and Sebastian Ch. 06



--Like most of the stories, this installment is once again from Sebastian's point of view, rather than Rory's. Like all of the stories, they are above the age of 18. Thank you so much to everyone for their comments on this series so far. --



'How long has he been like this?' 

Robbie looked at me as we walked through the school grounds to the playing fields. Where I'd first begun speaking to Rory properly, only a few weeks earlier. There was no hesitancy in Robbie and no attempt to play coy with the information or to ineffectually cover it up. He was straight down the line with the information; it was one of the reasons why he and I got along so well together. We were very alike in that respect. 'A while,' he said. 'I don't know when it started. I know when I first started to notice something wasn't right, but I don't know when it started in Rory's head.'

'He was never fat, though. Was he?' I asked. It was a rhetorical question. I'm sure I'd've remembered him getting as trim as he was now, if he'd been larger at some point. But at least if he had been, there'd be a firm, certifiable moment where the 'problem' began.

'No,' Robbie said. 'Not in anyone else's eyes at least. He was a bit podgy for, like, a year, in prep school, like we all were at some point, y'know? I can remember someone making a joke about it in football one day, when we were getting changed. Kids' stuff. I remember it because it was the first time I'd ever heard anyone insult Rory. And I think, to be honest, that it just ate away at him, under the surface. Then, when we started going here, I began noticing things like he wouldn't take his top off if we were sharing a bed or sleeping over together or anything like that.'

'And you would?'

'Yeah. Of course. That's what made it obvious. Then, little things – especially once we started drinking. At times, he'd get upset about it when he was drunk. Really, really upset. Or obsess about his clothes and how he looked. He'd panic if it wasn't "right."'

'It's a really big thing, isn't it, Robbie?'

'Huge,' Robbie sighed. 'I mean, he's not a mess,' he added, defensively. As if he needed to defend Rory to me. 'He's not ... a burden. If that's what you're thinking.'

'Fuck off,' I snapped, irritably. 'That's not what I think.'

'Sorry.'

'It's just ... Fuck, dude, I dunno. I mean, he's my boyfriend. And I really like him. So fucking much. And he was visibly freaking out when I started touching his stomach. Like, I've felt his boner through his jeans before and he wasn't embarrassed about that, at all. It's just...'

'It's not modesty,' Robbie explained. 'That's not what it is.'

'He cried, Robbie,' I said. I could hear the sadness in my voice; I couldn't get the image of the tears spilling down his face. 'He cried because I touched him. And I had to hold him there to get him to stop. Poor Rory. Fuck.'

Robbie flung his arm around my shoulder. 'He'll get better,' he said. 'You'll be good for him. You'll be good for each other.'

'I will make him better,' I promised. 'Also, dude, less serious note: I'm wanking so much more now.'

'Seriously?'

'Yeah, I don't know what he does to me, but I'm turned on pretty much all the fucking time.'

Robbie laughed. 'Well if that doesn't help with his self-esteem issues, I don't know what will.'

I wiped my hand down his face. 'That's the hand that does all the damage.'

Robbie burst out laughing and punched me in the arm.

*

The knowledge that Rory was riddled with one crippling neurosis settled over our relationship like a cloud, dimly streaked with gray, on a summer's day. Had Rory been allowed to do things his way, he would never have mentioned the evening he freaked out. He'd have preferred to let it slip away into silence and mentally torture himself with the memory of it. Like all of his problems, the worst of them was achieved because he was allowed to nurture them, or fester them, in the silence of his own self-flagellating thoughts. I, however, was luckily wired in a completely different way and I wouldn't let it lie, no matter how piss-bitchy he got about it from time to time. I'd put my hand under his sweater when we were hanging out on Saturdays or Sundays; I'd read aloud his jean size and mock him for thinking that it could possibly be conceived as fat; I'd regularly make obscene sexual comments to him (those, in fairness, were as much for my benefit as his) and not once, no matter what he said or did, would I ever concede that he had a point. Or that he should be 'allowed' to feel this way. 

The problem with Rory's entrenched belief that he was not just fat but that he was also ugly, too, was that in every other way, Rory had a shrewd self-awareness that it is very rare to find in anyone, of any age. You couldn't possibly have accused him of being modest. Or self-deprecating. Rory was definitely aware of his cleverness, his grace, his wit and his charm. If you'd asked him, like I did one night, how he managed to "work" people, he actually could've told you, with pretty accurate precision, what bits of his personality made people respond to him in the way that they did. It was that understated elegance, the ease of his carriage and person, that I can remember being struck with the very first time I became aware of being attracted to him – on the playing fields, on the day both of us were kept off by Mr Gortchin. 

Knowing all this about himself, Rory was therefore able to convince himself that because he could see the good in himself, he must also be instinctively and infallibly aware of the bad, as well. When it came to himself, I had to make Rory realize that whilst he was clever, he was not omniscient. It was a hard lesson for him to learn. 

Anyway, at eighteen, Rory was unshakably convinced that he and he alone could read himself properly. He was clever, funny and confident; he was fat, ugly and unattractive. No matter what argument you put to him, and I put many - including that no-one had ever intimated in any way that he was ugly - Rory could also retort with firm, slightly sad, confidence that implied that either only people like Josh Peterly had the honesty to tell him what he actually looked like. Or that he was somehow so magically skilled with hairspray and fashion sense that he could trick us all into believing he wasn't quite the mutant that he'd appear to be if he went topless. 

For the first few weeks that we were together, Rory and I therefore basically had a weird kind of non-intimate intimacy. Physical intimacy between us was everywhere and it was also painfully absent, at exactly the same time. That sounds weird, I know, but that's how I felt. I would hold his hand, we'd make out, he'd rest his head on my shoulder when we watched a movie, he'd stroke my face, feed me, he'd let me rest his head on a cushion on his lap when I'd nap after practice. But the slight tremor in his body when I'd creep up behind him, push myself on him and put my hand up his sweater onto his stomach didn't go away. No matter how often I did it. In a weird way, the fact that I knew getting Rory to be physically or sexually intimate would be one massive uphill psychological battle to overcome focused my attention on that point in our relationship far earlier than I might have done if I had just assumed that, one day soon, it'd start when the time was right and it'd all be fine. There was now no doubt in my mind that I'd have to be the one to initiate it and that I'd have to be quite firm about it. Maybe even slightly forceful. What I hadn't quite appreciated yet, however, was Rory's capacity to surprise me.

It was, maybe, about three weeks after the night at the pub with Robbie and the guys from the rugby squad – or, in Rory's head, the night he'd gone eight kinds of crazy over his stomach. We'd told everyone that we were official; Robbie, first, as our closest mutual friend. His face had kind of lit up when we told him and he and Rory spent about half an hour sequestered in the corner of the pub with their beers, heads close, laughing with one another. They looked like brothers. Sexy brothers. (My cock flared.) Anyway, after that, Rory had told the girls – Virginia, Judith, Claudia and Caroline – all of whom, except Judith, were now marginally nicer to me. As nice as the bitches of Eastwick could be; Judith at least had the emotional honesty to admit to herself that she didn't give a fuck if anyone but her lived or died, so she still looked at me as if I was some weird kind of fungus who'd wandered out of the zoo and too close to her lunch table. I ate lunch with them once. Never again. Firstly even the word 'ate' is misleading. I ate. They looked at me from their diet sodas like I needed a feeding trough. I'd told my parents about him and me; they were cool with it, and they both seemed to like Rory. My mother found him 'very sweet,' my dad liked that he was clever. Which is how my father typically decides if he likes anybody. Rory passed with flying colors. I liked Rory's parents, too. His father was a bit more reserved than his mother, but they were nice to me and gave us our space. Rory and his dad were very close, which I liked. My sister Jenny liked Rory, too; he had a better way of talking to girls than I did. Do. They got along very well. A conversation on the merits of each individual Kardashian sister seemed to seal the deal between them.

Anyway, I'd been horse riding all day Saturday and I'd told Rory that I'd be over to his house at about seven. I knew he was cooking dinner for us – steaks, which on a good day might actually make me happier than sex. I jest. Fuck me, I seriously jest! But, anyway, by the time I was done with the horses and said goodbye to my cousin, who rode with me, it was 6.50. There was no way I'd have time to go home, shower or change, without maybe fucking up Rory's cooking plans completely. I bombed over to his house in my car and got there at 7.10. He opened the door, wearing a white wool sweater and dark jeans. He looked freshly showered and his eyes were bright. Like his smile.

'I'm so sorry I'm late,' I apologized, kissing him on the lips. 'Is dinner ready? Did I fuck up?'

'No,' he laughed. 'I haven't start it, yet. You can't start steaks until the person's here! I don't even know how you take yours. Don't worry. Calm! This is funny - I've never seen you stressed before.'

I relaxed and smiled. 'I didn't want to fuck up,' I explained. 'Can I use your shower? I bombed over here from the stables. And I stink.'

For the first time since I'd arrived, Rory took a step back and looked at me properly. I was wearing my boots, dirty beige jodhpurs and a beat-up old Ralph Lauren top. I stank of horses and sweat. I purposely had not yet stepped off the entrance mat in case I messed up his mom's entrance hall. Rory, however, who was usually so fussy about anything like that, didn't seem to have noticed. His face had flushed slightly and his eyes were slightly glazed. I knew that look, like the back of my hand. It was lust.

'Ooooh,' I mocked. 'Ooh-ho.'

'What?' he answered, defensively. 'What?'

'How's your dick, Ror-Ror? Firming up?' 

'I ... What?'

'It's "pardon," princess, and it's okay to admit you find me sexy. Who'd've thought it? Anti-Bac Masterton crushes extra hard on his boyfriend when he's all sweaty and dirty. You filthy bitch.'

'You're an ass,' Rory shot back, smiling. His eyes were dancing. The game play was on.

'Would you rather I'd been riding you rather than the horses today, Rory?' It suddenly hit me that his parents could definitely have overheard this and mortification shot through my body.

'Don't worry,' Rory said, smugly. Reading my thoughts. 'They're out for the evening. Go take your shower.' 

'You need to help me take my boots off, slut,' I said. 'Unless you want the carpet destroyed.'

He looked at me, keenly. Making a decision. Appraising it. 'Okay. One thing, though,' he said. And then he threw himself at me, right up against me. I could feel his dick through his jeans – closer to a boner than a semi. His tongue stabbed into my mouth. I'd never seen him this forward before. And I'd rather have been bent over and been fucked up the ass by a cucumber than let the opportunity pass. I wrapped my arms around his back and one grabbed his ass, squeezing tightly. He squealed slightly into my mouth. He liked it. We were both hard now. His hands began to unbutton my jodhpurs. He was like a man possessed and, with him in this mood, so was I. I hadn't had sex, or anything like it bar masturbating, in over a month. Not since the vortex of self-annoyance brought about by Josh Peterly's tight asshole and wet mouth.

When the jodhpurs were undone and his hand was on my boxers – when he could feel my cock through the fabric – I felt him hesitate, just for a moment. And I held myself still. Stiller than he'd done when my hand went to his stomach. I didn't want to force him, but I knew he had a habit of second-guessing himself. 'Touch it,' I said, huskily. His eyes flicked up to my face and there was a small, open-lipped smirk on his lips. He looked devastatingly sexy. Naughty and prim; intelligently slutty. His eyes broke contact with mine and he looked instead at my mouth. The right corner of his lips moved slightly, as if he smile was extending, and his left hand stayed clasped on my hip, as his right hand slipped in through the slit in my boxers. That's when Rory Masterton touched my dick for the first time. My head groaned backwards, onto the Mastertons' front door; his fingers traced lightly along my shaft. Then they circled it and he swallowed. He removed his hands, temporarily; I exhaled in audible frustration. He put his hands behind my head and guided it back, so I opened my eyes and looked down at him.

'I'm so glad you're here,' he said. And I kissed him again. Hard. I'd hurt him slightly with how hard I'd slammed into him, but he kept grinding against me. When we broke apart, he was breathless, but there was hardly a nanosecond of a pause before he dropped down to his knees in front of me. He pulled my jodhpurs open further and yanked them down with my boxers. My cock sprang free and Rory's mouth fell on it. Instantly and instinctively. He wasted no time. He was trying to take as much of it in his mouth as possible. You could hear him slobbering all over it. His spit was slicking it up, I was already started to prejac and he was slurping away in the middle of his entrance hall like he was demented. His hands reached behind me and held onto the globes of my ass. I heard him whimper with lust when he reached them. The sound was muffled by the presence of my dick in his mouth, right up to the entrance to his throat. He pulled off and took deep, guttural, inelegant breaths. There were spit bubbles around his mouth and dribbling down his chin. He removed his hands from my ass and began jerking them up and down my cock. Seeing him so messed up and so unexpectedly stripped of all his usual propriety, seeing the elegance gone from him completely, seeing him reduced – or maybe elevated, fuck knows – to kneeling in his front entrance hall, slobbering and gasping over the sweaty cock of his unwashed, horse-stained boyfriend, pushed me over the edge. I loved him. That was the moment when I knew it. I think I knew it even through the lust and sweat of the situation. I didn't say it though. Not then. Instead, I yanked my top off over my head and tossed it aside. I put my hands on the back of his head and wrapped them through his hair. I guided him back towards my tool and he opened obediently. He began bobbing up and down, my hand stayed on his head and he looked up at me. Holding eye contact.

'You're beautiful,' I groaned. 'Fuck me - you've no idea how beautiful your face looks like, stuffed full of dick like this. Yeah, you fucking like that, don't you? I'm not going to last much longer,' I warned. I was telling the truth. I hadn't jerked off all day and this was unexpected. I could feel my balls tingling and I didn't want him to think that I was an early shooter, under the right circumstances.

He pulled off again and I yelled slightly in frustration. 'Sebastian,' he gasped and slurred slightly. I looked down at him. 'I want you to spunk in my mouth,' he said, firmly. His hands traced up onto my six pack: loving, erotically, entreatingly. 'I want it all in my mouth. I want it. Please,' Rory asked, 'fucking cum in my mouth.'

I nearly came there and then, just hearing him talk like that. I grabbed my dick with my hand and smacked it on his face a couple of times. He tilted his head back, closed his eyes and his mouth hung open with naked, unashamed desire. 'You want it in your mouth, Rory?' He nodded again and I cock-slapped him a few more times. 'Take it, then. Fucking take it.'

I slid my penis into his mouth and I felt relief in him that it was back there. I tightened my grip this time on my hair and his hands returned to my ass. He started pushing himself further and further down my pole. I could hear him choking and feel drool – there was too much of it now to be called spit – spilling slickly out the sides of his mouth. There was more choking and nearly a retch, as he forced the head of my dick down his throat. His nose made contact with my trimmed pubic hair and my balls were crushed slightly by his chin. I could hear him choking. I could see him turning red and I tried to back off, just a little. To give him some space, any space, to let more air in. But he tightened his grip on my ass cheeks and held me there. He was actually almost trying to choke himself on my dick, he was so into it. He swallowed; I felt his throat muscles go. I lost it and thrust forward. Spunk shot out of me and poured down Rory's throat or into his mouth. I actually screamed, or roared, as it happened. My legs and ass seized up, slightly. It was intense, visceral. Just as I'd finished spunking, Rory pulled back and his head hung forward. Ropes of my cum, mixed with his spit, hung from his mouth. He didn't have his breath back. I reached down and yanked him brutally to his feet by his arm. I spun us around, so he was the one with his back to the door and I kissed him. Savagely. I nearly had my whole tongue in his mouth. I felt his spit and my spooj trickle onto my bare chest; I tasted it in his mouth. His arms wrapped around my neck, holding me close to him. I could feel he was still shaking; I wasn't giving him anytime to recover. I pulled my, still naked, crotch away from him slightly and began to undo his belt buckle. I pressed my hand against the torso of his sweater and slammed him firmly against the door. I undid his belt, unbuttoned his fly, pulled his pants down to past his ass and then down to his knees, when I pushed his boxers into them. 

I hocked. I spat into my spare hand and I could see traces of my spit, his spit and my cum in it. I reached down and grabbed his cock. I began aggressively jerking it. He was like putty in my hands. He was writhing and mewing, like a whore in heat. I reached up and yanked his sweater up. I felt him try to recoil and with great, great restraint I stopped myself from slapping him. 'If you want this to finish,' I commanded, 'then you better hold fucking still, Rory.' I kissed him again and then yanked the sweater up and off, throwing it in the same direction I'd thrown mine. I keep jerking and kissed him again, before tracing down his neck and onto his nipples. Everything on his upper body was rock hard. It was perfect. People would actually have paid to have the physique he had. It irritated me slightly, in the back of my mind, and it made me sad. But I kept kissing up and down; I pulled his nipples into my mouth and began sucking them, spitting on them, and nibbling. He was thrusting his dick into my hands and I was impressed at the size of it. He was actually quite big. Although, to my rugby boy relief, about half an inch or so shorter than me. 




Rory and Sebastian Ch. 06



I traced my hand down to fondle his ass and support him, when his feet lifted off the ground slightly. I whispered twice, 'You're so beautiful, Rory. You've no idea how beautiful you are right now.' His eyes were closed as he spouted into my hand – big, thick torrents of ejaculate. That collided into my stomach, landed slightly on his, hit my balls and ran through my hands. When he'd stopped, he didn't cave into my arms, like I'd expected him to. Instead, he kept his eyes closed, took a deep breath and laid his head back against the door. 

When he opened his eyes, I was staring at him, smirking. He tried to reach for the phone table where his sweater was hanging. 'Oh, no you don't,' I ruled. I pressed him back up against the door, our naked stomachs pressed against each other and we felt his cum squelch between us. Our softening dicks nuzzled into together and I wrapped my arms around his waist. 'Too late now, Rory.'

'Give me my sweater, asshole,' he commanded, trying to keep his tone light. 'It's over.'

'No,' I said. 'I'm bigger than you, I'm stronger than you and I'm not giving it back. I wanna perv on you for a bit.' I nuzzled in and kissed his neck, softly. 'Take my boots off, I really need a shower.'

He got down to my feet and prized my riding boots off, as I held onto the door handle for support. I noticed that he tried to keep his hand across his stomach, but couldn't maintain it because he needed both hands to get the boots off. 'I didn't know sweaty cowboys turned you on this much,' I teased.

'Oh yeah, you're so cowboy in your Ralph Lauren and your jodhpurs, Sebastian. It's practically like being in the original Wild West.'

'Didn't hear you complaining when you were slobbering up and down on my dick like it was a popsicle stick in the middle of July.'

He looked up at me and rolled his eyes. The final boot came off and he got to his feet. He tried to put his hand back to shielding his stomach. 'No,' I said, pulling it away and stepping back in. 'No, Rory. I just spunked in your mouth and molested the fuck out of you in the middle of your parents' entrance hall. The time for dignity is past. Right, which shower should I use?'

'My one,' he said. 'There should be towels up there. I'll go up after you. I probably need one now, too,' he said, gesturing ruefully at his cum-splattered physique.

'After me?' I asked, sarcastically. 'No, no. With me.' He opened his mouth to make a wise-ass comeback, but before he could I hoisted him up over my shoulder and began walking up his stairway.

'Sebastian, I am serious, stop this! I am not... Sebastian, please. Put me down.'

'I've already seen you naked, Rory,' I laughed, 'and I might want blown again in the shower. Shut the fuck up.' I pulled his socks, trousers and underwear off him as we walked, littering them on the stairs. 'By the way, when are your parents back? I may need to clean this up. Mightn't make too good an impression if they find all this when they come home.'

He paused and stopped struggling. 'Hey, Ror-Ror,' I said, slapping his ass, 'when are they back?'

'They're not. They're at Aunty Sarah's for the night.'

'And when were you going to tell me this?' 

'Later.'

'Oh, Rory,' I laughed throatily, 'there's going to be so much cum in this house tonight.'

I deposited him on the floor of his bedroom and opened the door to his en-suite. 'C'mon, then,' I gestured, clicking my fingers and pointing at the bathroom. 'You've a nice dick,' I complimented. 'And put your arms across our stomach one more time and I'll fucking break them, Rory.'

I pulled my jodhpurs and boxers down, fluffing my dick and balls a little. 'Right, baby, let's go. First shower together.'

He walked past me, eyeing me the whole time. He was smiling slightly, as if to say, 'Fuck you, asshole, you've won this round.' And he was blushing, because he was naked. I pulled two towels off the rack, and nudged him into the shower. I turned it on and the shower hit us both. He had a nice shower; a really big one. And the water cascaded over us. He grimaced slightly and squealed as the water hit him. It was cute. I tossed him the shower gel: 'Do my back for me,' I asked, turning away from him.

He squirted the gel into his hands and began lathering up my back. Robbie had been right; his hang-ups were, in no way, modesty related. He didn't recoil from, or object to, my nudity in any way. It was entirely self-centered, in the least selfish possible way; what he did to himself. It wasn't through modesty; Robbie knew him too well. Robbie had said that Rory hadn't taken his t-shirt off when they slept over together, but he hadn't objected to Robbie doing it. If he'd been naturally prudish, he would have. But he wasn't. His hands coiled gently down my back, applying exactly the right kind of pleasure. It was fucking blissful. I curse like an Irishman, by the way; I know.

'So, why didn't you tell me your parents weren't going to be here tonight?' I asked. I tried to keep the nerves out of my voice, but it had just occurred to me that he might have deliberately kept the information from me. Given what had just happened downstairs, I hadn't initially considered the possibility that maybe he didn't want us sharing a bed. Maybe I shouldn't have said that cum comment? 'I can go, honestly, Rory, if you'd rather or if it'd get you in trouble.'

He kept washing me and his hands moved, caressingly, down to my ass cheeks again. 'No, it wasn't that,' he said, honestly. 'It was just that I didn't know how fast things were moving between us. I didn't think this was going to happen. Or that,' he continued, in reference to downstairs 'I don't know what came over me when I saw you. But, I'd like you to stay.' He finished washing my ass cheeks; his hands stopped. 'Please stay?' he asked, softly. Meekly. He kissed my shoulder.

'Of course I'll stay,' I answered. 'One condition. Okay, two.'

'What?' he asked. He was amused; we were playing again.

'You sleep naked with me tonight,' I declared. 'And you blow me in the morning. Then cook me breakfast.' I glanced over my shoulder and winked at him. 'I know that's three, but I'm sexy and you'll do it.'

'Sleep naked?'

'Yep.'

He paused, then swallowed. 'Okay. Deal.'

'Do my legs,' I commanded. He slid to his knees and lathered up legs. He washed them thoroughly and then I turned to face him. I raised my eyebrows and he nodded, conceding defeat. Acknowledging that he knew what was coming next. He passed over the shower gel and I washed him. I wish I could say I washed away the last of his neuroses, but of course I didn't. There were still instinctive recoils; momentary flinches. They'd keep up, one way or the other and from time to time, for years. But I kept my hand on him, teased him, talked to him, showered him and tugged on his semi. We dried ourselves off outside in the bathroom, except his hair – I dried that. Looming over him; it felt like I was looming, even though I was only three inches taller. And I kept talking the whole time. He was looking up at me with these big, calf-like saucers. He adored me and trusted me. There was, for the rest of that whole night, no guard up from him whatsoever. And I loved him; I knew that.

*

Twenty minutes later, I walked into the kitchen, topless and wearing sweatpants. I pulled a beer from his fridge and watched as he cooked us dinner. He had a t-shirt on and sweats, too. I kissed the back of his neck and hopped up on the island, watching him. 'Are you virgin?' I asked, bluntly. I wanted to know. 

'Like a proper one?' he asked. 

'Yeah. Asshole,' I clarified.

'Yes,' he answered, flushing slightly. 'I'm not a slut, despite what I just...'

'How was that slutty, Rory? I'm your boyfriend. If you think it's slutty every time you end up with my cum on you, you're going to have a pretty unhappy life.'

He laughed. There was a pause. 'Sebastian.'

'What?'

He didn't say anything more. He opened his mouth, stopped, then shrugged and focused with excessive interest on his cooking. 

'I love you too, Rory,' I said.

He spun round. 'What?'

'That's what you wanted to say, isn't it?' I asked. My tone was matter-of-fact. I knew him. I knew he'd bottled out, but that he wanted to say it. That he meant it. But thought it was too soon. 

He nodded. The spatula was still in his hand, but he'd forgotten his task. There was no elegance in him again; he just looked big-eyed and lost. I hopped down and walked over. 'Rory, I've never said it to anyone before, either. I love you. Okay?' I kissed him on the nose. 'I love you so fucking much. You think it's weird we're saying this too soon? Fuck it. We don't have to tell anyone else we've said it. It doesn't matter what anyone else says or thinks; this is just us. It's just between us. Our business; our relationship. Right?' He nodded and his free hand trailed entreatingly over my chest. I kept talking: 'Rory, you think this is all too soon and that you can't believe you did what you did in the hallway. Don't be stupid. I looked down at you, slobbering up and down on my dick and you know what I thought? I thought, "Fuck me, my boyfriend is incredible." I love you, Rory, all of you. When you have your shit together and when you don't. Less so when you're being a little bitch, but other than that, you're perfect. Almost as perfect as me. Which is something!'

He smiled and bit his lip. 'I love you, too,' he said. 

'I know. Duh.'

'Well, I thought I should at least say it, Sebastian!' he shot back. I laughed at him. 'I've given head before,' he said. 'Just to be clear.'

'That's so weird, baby, considering how timid you were in the hallway.' I slapped his ass and then grabbed him as he cooked, pulled his collar down a bit and landed a hickey on the back of his right shoulder.

*

That night, I sucked him off for the first time, too. After dinner, we went into his den and watched a truly shiteous Scarlett Johansson movie. He was lying down and I was resting my head on his stomach. (How's that for progress?) I began kissing it, then trailed down and went to town on his dick. He tasted nice; freshly washed, obviously, but sizeable and a little salty. He had nice balls and dark pubis. He kept a firm grip on my head towards the end and didn't warn me when he was going to cum. He just sprayed in my mouth. I drank it all down. I liked him like that – a little butch, a little domineering. It was sexy. I crawled up after, when it was over, and kissed him on the mouth. He accepted it, although I'd swallowed his cum. I put my head on his chest and closed my eyes for a minute. He gently stroked my hair and kept watching the movie. Later, up in his bedroom, he pulled out some baby oil and offered me a massage. I stripped naked and then undressed him. He massaged my back and then my front, tweaking my nipples as he went. He was hard again; the redness of his head pointing angrily to the ceiling. We 69'd each other and I let my tongue flick over his asshole a few times during it. 

He lay in my arms that night; there was no light and it was that kind of pitch-blackness that only homes in the countryside, that are far from the main roads, can get. It was nice and soothing. I traced my hands up and down his side and he was too tired, too worn out by all the foreplay, to protest. He'd relaxed. That mood happened to him intermittently, with increasing regularity the longer we were together; so relaxed and at ease with himself, with us, with his body. It gave me an insight into what he might always have been like if, if Robbie was right, that kid had never made the comment to him eight years ago at a kids' football practice.

'Tonight was unexpected,' I chortled in the darkness.

'Well, you were right about the amount of cum,' he rejoined. Still on the ball with wordplay, even when he was half-asleep. 

'I'm always right about spunk, baby. It's a skill. You are quite the tiger.' I pulled him closer to me and he wrapped his leg closer into mine. He sighed, softly. I nudged him, just as he dozed off to sleep. 'Don't you forget that blowjob in the morning.'

'Fuck you,' he murmured.

'Oh, that'll come, big boy,' I laughed. 'Don't you worry.'



Rory and Sebastian Ch. 07



'You mustn't be sad.'

Rory said these words to me in that strangely soft drawl of his; the one that came only when he was comforting me. It sounded kind of like something that floated out of an old Merchant and Ivory movie. He ran his hand soothingly along the back of my bowed head and settled himself on the wing of an overstuffed armchair in my family sitting room. There was a crack and a spit from the fire burning in the fireplace and wind-blown rain lashed against the windows.

'You mustn't be angry,' he whispered in a voice that sounded like a strange kind of love-child between a command and an entreaty. 'Sebastian?'

'How can you tell me not to be angry?' I asked quietly, into my clenched hands.

'Sebastian, he doesn't matter. You mustn't let it bother you.'

I glanced up at him; my face was, I'm pretty sure, a mixture of incredulity and rage. 'He was fucking terrible to you! He was bullying you. I mean, that's what it fucking is! And it's my...'

'It's not your fault,' he continued, in the same kind of calmness that was so rare in him. It was strangely hypnotic. His voice had acquired a lilting cadence. Maybe you only hear it if you're in love with someone, like I was with him. But I do think impartially that when he was completely centered and completely focused, anyone could have noticed that he did manage to have this soothing sound to his voice. He kept stroking my head and gazing down at me with warm, swimming eyes. Kind of like the ones you see in an old statue of a Catholic saint. 

'Sebastian, listen to me: it's not your fault. It happened. I was upset. Of course I was. But it happened and it's no-one's fault. No-one's fault but his. He's always hated me; long before you. I'm sorry if that dents your ego.' He was smiling, gently, as he said it, as if we were suddenly and magically prepared to start joking about the whole thing. But I wasn't prepared to concede the point.

'Without me, he never would have said anything. He never would have done any of this, Rory.'

'You mustn't do anything stupid. You mustn't demean yourself, or you and I, us, by responding to it. He wants your acknowledgement; you shouldn't give it to him. Don't even be angry at him.'

'And what about you?' I said, into my hands again. 'Should I be angry at you?'

His hand stopped stroking my head and instead the third finger of his right hand traced little lines in the back of my skull. He didn't speak for about twenty seconds and I let him wait it out. 'Yes,' he conceded, after a moment. 'Perhaps.'

'Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell me when it started?'

He hesitated. And began stroking my hair again, absent-mindedly. 'I don't know,' he admitted. He sounded far-off. 'I was worried you might get angry.'

'Promise me that's why.'

I looked up at him and I saw shock flicker across his face at the fact that there were now tears in my eyes. He'd never seen that in me before. But even in a state of shock, Rory was a master of emotional improvisation; within a second, his face had returned to the kind of beatific neutrality he'd shown earlier. His face implied that this whole argument was an abstract problem; that it was nothing to do with him. That it neither affected him, nor applied to him. That it was all to do with me and he simply cared about it because he cared about me. I wondered if that was his way of coping with it. 

'Rory,' I repeated, 'please, tell me. Is that honestly why?'

'Yes,' he lied. 'Of course.'

'Not of course,' I snapped, getting up from the seat and walking over to the window ledge, which I leant against. 'Not fucking of course. Did you lie to me because you thought I might agree with him?'

'I didn't lie,' Rory reasoned. I looked at him scornfully – when they're in the wrong, people usually leap on the semantics and argue about them instead of arguing about the real stuff. 'Sebastian, I did not lie,' he repeated.

'Every time I've asked you if you were okay and you've answered yes, you've been lying,' I shot back. I wasn't letting this one drop. The more I thought about it, the more furious I was at him. 'Do you not trust me?'

'Of course I trust you!' he replied. It was quick; instantaneous. Sincere. 'Of course, I do. Sebastian, how could you even ask me that? You're blowing this completely out of proportion.'

'How many times has it made you cry? How many times did you get a message from him when we were together?' 

He walked towards me. He was holding his calm. 'I don't want people to know what he's said,' he reasoned. Still talking to me in the tone you might use to a nervous colt. 'I don't want this to become a thing in school. Please, Sebastian.'

'Because you think people will agree with him? Like you thought I might agree with him?'

His arms snaked softly round my waist, but I didn't respond. 'Sebastian. Can't we just forget this? Please?'

I pushed him off me, gently but firmly. 'No,' I answered. 'We can't, because you can't. And until you admit that you didn't trust me to have your back in all this, I don't want to hang out with you.'

He stepped back, stunned. Like I'd hit him. 'Seriously?'

'Seriously,' I replied, coldly. 'I have worked so hard to get your trust. I have not once lied to you, betrayed you, left you hanging; I have done everything to make you feel good about yourself and to make this something where we trust each other. Any problem I had, I'd come to you: especially if it was a serious one ...'

'This wasn't ser-'

'Don't fucking lie to me, Rory! Of course it's serious. It's... I feel like all the love and all the nice things haven't worked with you. Or they've only worked so far. I want this to work, but if I think you're hiding things from me - things that affect us both and that you should fucking let me help you with - then it's not going to work. Is it?'

'Are you breaking up with me?' His voice cracked.

'Don't be retarded,' I sighed. I saw relief shoot through every fiber of his body. 'I'm just mad at you and you should have told me.'

'So you don't feel like hanging out now?'

'No,' I admitted. 'Not right now, Rory.'

'I'll go then,' he said, neutrally. 

'I'll give you a lift home.'

'I have an umbrella; thank you for the offer, though,' he said, with exquisitely detached manners. 'I'll see you in school on Monday, Sebastian.'

I nodded and didn't look at him as he left. A few moments later, once he'd found his coat and gloves, he stepped out into the rain. And I glanced out the window as he walked away, a tall, willowy figure beneath a black umbrella. Left alone, I let a couple of tears of frustration out and then puffed out my cheeks. I sat on the sofa and gazed into the fire; he'd left me alone, like I'd wanted, with my annoyance, my confusion and my rage.

*

Rory and I had been dating for just shy of eight weeks when that fight – the first real fight – happened between us. I'd been right when I said there'd be more things to learn about each other. More layers were added, imperceptibly, piece by piece, as we grew closer. Part of this was finding out the standard little quirks of our interests; facts, factoids, whatever. The vital statistics, if you like. We knew each other's favorite books ('Brideshead Revisited' and 'The Pursuit of Love' for him; 'This Thing of Darkness' for me), favorite movies, colors, TV shows, first memories, etc. But there were also other things we got to know about each other or came to be able to guess: ticks and quirks. His aversion to needlessly-open doors; my hatred of toast sweat, etc. What he was thinking when the right hand corner of his bottom lip turned slightly downwards, as he bit on it in apparent thoughtfulness. How I tapped my leg when I was feeling increasingly horny. All of it, bit by bit, we came to recognize and we grew closer. We had still not slept together, fully, although the oral sex we'd progressed to – unexpectedly – that night at his house, had become a pretty regular occurrence. 

There had been a period, though, of about two weeks, immediately preceding our first fight, when I could feel Rory beginning to recoil from me again. Of flinching, again, when I touched him. Like all of his conscious physical movements, the flinches were subtle – almost unnoticeable to anyone who wasn't intimately aware of why he was doing them and when. Three days before the fight itself broke, I'd been aware of a momentary spasm – a light fluttering of discomfort – when I'd put my hand on his shoulder as I walked up behind him in the school corridors. At first, I thought it was because he didn't know who it was, but even when he saw it was me, the tenseness remained. I actually saw him exhale, slightly, with relief when I let go of him. Which wasn't a great feeling for me.

I'd made-up my mind to talk to him that night, or at the weekend, when events sort of overtook me. Us. I knew that something had happened when I caught Rory's best friend, Robbie, staring off into the distance. Robbie is as bad at hiding his facial expressions as Rory is good at it. He looked lost in thought and those thoughts were clearly angry ones. 

'Dude, what's up?' I asked him at Friday lunch-time. It had been one of this piss-annoying Fridays, when everything had seemed to drag. But I guess if you pick Physics for A-Level, like I did, then you deserved all the misery that came your way.

'Nothing,' he answered, unconvincingly. 'Nothing, bro. Just thinking about homework.' But I saw his eyes glance over quickly at the table where Rory was sitting with the four girls. To me, Rory looked fine. He was listening to a story that his friend Claudia was telling and laughing along at it. He added some aside to the story and the rest of the girls burst out laughing. Claudia swatted him playfully. No doubt the story was amoral to a level that the cast of 'Heathers' would probably find shocking, but they seemed happy. Rory seemed to be quite clearly enjoying himself. But Robbie had looked over at him and I'd noticed the change in his behavior when he did. I wasn't going to put Robbie in a difficult position, especially in front of the rest of the guys, but I had a hunch that something had happened with Rory and that Robbie both knew about it and was worried about it. Maybe it was just something that had gone wrong in their friendship, but a tiny part of me – okay, quite a large part of me – felt that twang of jealousy when you realize that the best friend probably knows something before the boyfriend does.

I looked over at Rory. He was focused entirely on his clique and the rest of Claudia's story. For the entirety of that lunch time, he did not once look up from their table. From their hermetically-sealed little world. Usually, he'd briefly scan the cafeteria for the sign of anything interesting going on; i.e. gossip. Today, there was nothing. He had locked himself into that group. As if he couldn't, or wouldn't, see anything outside it.

*

That evening, I sat on the chair in Rory's room, while he fluttered around in the closet next door. He kept popping in and out to make sure that I was entertained. He'd taken about forty-five minutes to get ready and he'd finally picked the very nice but pretty unimaginative option of a speckled-grey cashmere sweater, dark jeans and a thick, dark tan belt. His hair bounced slightly in the preppy perfection that he seemed to achieve so effortlessly. Seemed, being the operative word, obviously. 

'Rory, could this possibly have taken any longer?' I groaned.

He spun round the door-frame, holding onto it and smiling a taunting, flirty smile. He seemed upbeat and jovial; excited, relieved, happy. 'Don't you want me to look pretty?'

'If I wanted that, you'd be taking clothes off, not putting them on.' 

He rolled his eyes and I laughed. He spun back inside the closet and kept talking to me about the restaurant we were going to for dinner that night. It was quite pricey, but we were splitting the bill. At his insistence. And it was nice to go somewhere proper for once. It was a like a very different type of first date. With my boyfriend. I smiled; the word still made me smile.

From the table next to me, a text beep came through. I reached instinctively for it, thinking that it was mine. It wasn't. It was Rory's and I only realized that when it was in my hand and I saw the words "JOSHUA PETERLY" on the sender ID. I wish for my honor's sake I could tell you that I hesitated before invading Rory's privacy and opening the message. But I didn't. There was not one tiny qualm or heartbeat of indecision. Every instinct in my body distrusted the fact that Josh was texting Rory. I clicked and the message opened.

SAW YOU EATING IN THE CAFETERIA TODAY. TROUGH UNAVAILABLE? 

A leaden feeling settled in my stomach, as I scrolled up. There were fifteen messages from Joshua, with only one or two replies from Rory. Rory had stopped responding about ten messages ago; I glanced at the dates and times – they'd been arriving intermittently, on average about one or two per day, with one or two exceptions, for the last ten or so days.

JOSHUA PETERLY – JUST SO YOU KNOW, IT WAS PATHETIC THE WAY YOU AND SEB WERE ALL OVER EACH OTHER IN SCHOOL TODAY. PEOPLE WERE LAUGHING AT YOU. 

RORY – THANKS FOR THE HEADS-UP, JOSHUA. HOWEVER, IF I WANT DATING ADVICE FROM SOMEONE WITH YOUR MENTAL STABILITY, I'LL GO READ A BIOGRAPHY OF HENRY VIII.

JOSHUA PETERLY – TAKE IT HE STILL HASN'T FUCKED YOU YET, THEN?

JOSHUA PETERLY – HAHA. THOUGHT NOT.

RORY – I'VE NO IDEA WHY THAT'S ANY BUSINESS OF YOURS, JOSHUA. PLEASE STOP CONTACTING ME. MY GAG REFLEX ISN'T WHAT IT SHOULD BE.

JOSHUA PETERLY – THAT'S A SHAME, BECAUSE YOU COULD DO WITH VOMITTING SOME OF THOSE CALORIES UP. 

JOSHUA PETERLY – IS SEBASTIAN A CHUBBY CHASER?

JOSHUA PETERLY – CHECK YOUR FACEBOOK MAIL. 

JOSHUA PETERLY – HE MAY HAVE PICKED ME OVER YOU, BUT BELIEVE ME, IF UR WHAT HIS TASTE IS, I'M GLAD HE DIDN'T PICK ME.

RORY – I HIGHLY DOUBT THAT, JOSHUA. PLEASE GO AWAY.

JOSHUA PETERLY – YOU TRY AND PRETEND LIKE UR SO CLEVER AND ABOVE PEOPLE, RORY. BUT REALLY YOU'RE JUST A FAT SLUT WHO WANTS SOME JOCK COCK. UR PATHETIC. 

JOSHUA PETERLY – CHECK YOUR FACEBOOK MAIL.

JOSHUA PETERLY – IS IT TRUE UR BOYFRIEND DOESN'T SIT WITH YOU AT LUNCH BECAUSE HE'S EMBARRASSED OF THE WAY YOU EAT?

JOSHUA PETERLY – YOUR HAIR LOOKED SHIT 2DAY, BTW.

JOSHUA PETERLY – YOU'VE GOT MAIL, FAT BOY.

JOSHUA PETERLY – HALF OUR YEAR SECRETLY HATES YOU. JUST SO YOU KNOW. THEY THINK UR STUCK UP, ARROGANT AND A TOTAL FAKE. THEY ALSO THINK SEBASTIAN CARSON'S ONLY DATING YOU BECAUSE HE FEELS SORRY FOR YOU.

JOSHUA PETERLY – YOU WON'T BE SO SMUG WHEN YOU SEE WHAT YOU'VE GOT IN YOUR MAIL BOX ON FB. DON'T BE EXCITED. IT'S NOT A SANDWICH.

JOSHUA PETERLY – Today, 19:35: SAW YOU EATING IN THE CAFETERIA TODAY. TROUGH UNAVAILABLE? 

I wish I could describe to you what that rage felt like. But I'm not good enough with words or written communication. I've got some game, but nothing to adequately capture what that anger was like. Had Josh said all of those things to me, I could not possibly have been more upset than I was right then. There was a dull, thudding, ringing in my ears. How could he do this and how could Rory have kept it from me? All traces of the good humor that usually counter-balanced Rory's vanished. I wasn't in the mood to joke around. Every muscle from my neck to my legs was twitching. I felt like I wanted to kill someone. I was livid. I'd never, ever felt like this before. Rory's continued stream of inane conversation from the closet next door sounded muffled – for a million dollars, I couldn't have told you what he'd been saying for the last five minutes. 

Finally noticing that something was wrong, Rory stepped gracefully into the room with a questioning look on his face: 'Sebastian?' he asked. 'Are you sure you want to drive or would you rather get a taxi and have something to drink?'

'Open your Facebook,' I said. 

He knew, instantly, what was wrong. He was quick. A rapid-fire mind of unerring social precision. 'Pardon?' he asked, playing for time. He used the two seconds the question bought him to silently scan the room with his eyes. He saw his phone, sitting in front of me on the coffee table. The screen was illuminated; showing it had recently been used. He swallowed. I could see his building panic, but I didn't care. I looked at him; my eyes blazing. I was angry at him, too. 

'Rory. Open your Facebook.'

'Why?'

'Don't play dumb.'

'No,' he answered, defiantly. But his voice had gone up at the end; it had wavered. He was visibly panicking. Visibly stalling. Well, he could try anything he liked, pull any trick he wanted; I was getting on that Facebook.

'Open it!' I growled. I couldn't yell at him; his mom was downstairs. 'Open it, now.'

'It's none of your business, Sebastian.'

I lost it. I picked up his phone and threw it at him. I shouldn't have done that. It was a Naomi Campbell moment that I apologized for later. But I was pissed. 'Open the fucking Facebook, Rory, or I am walking out of here and I am not coming back!'

That did it. He started walking towards the laptop. As he walked across the thick grey carpet of his bedroom, his mind had already leapt ahead of the next move. Like a master chess player, Rory had already conceded that he was going to have to show me whatever Joshua had sent him on Facebook and he was planning a speech to minimize the damage. His body was already trying to send me the message, subtly through its changed posture and unhurried speed, that I was overacting; that this was nothing. That it, like Joshua Peterly himself, was trivial. It was a performance that, like most of Rory's, was masterful to everyone but me. Hell, even I could concede it was masterful. It just wasn't convincing.

He opened his laptop and logged into his Facebook account, with brisk efficiency. Like there was no earthly reason why he'd hesitate. Why would he? After all, this was fucking trivial: right? I came up and stood behind his seat, leaning down over his shoulder and placing my right hand on the side of his laptop. I used it to click into his private messages and check to see what Josh had sent him. A couple were pictures of generic fat kid memes, others were of animals like blue whales or manatees; but by far the worst were the two taken on a camera phone of Rory opening his mouth to eat his lunch in school. The word 'Oink' was written across one in the bloc white capitals of a meme and 'Hahahahahahaha' was typed underneath it, in the body of the message, by Joshua.

'Don't,' he whispered. 

I didn't. I didn't know what to say. Poor, poor Rory. The anger suddenly left me and I was just desperately, desperately sad. My poor boyfriend. My boyfriend, who was, after all, only getting this shit because of some dumb twink I'd been casually hooking up with before Rory and I got together. I'd brought Josh's crazy into Rory's life – and now, he was being bullied by it. It was strange, if not downright fucking bizarre, to think of anyone like Rory being bullied by anyone like Joshua. Someone so beneath him in intellect, but, there it was. In black, white and meme. On his cell, on his Facebook, in his head. Unquestionably: in his head. 

I didn't rest my head against his. I couldn't. I couldn't cuddle him or comfort him. He'd sat on this, for nearly two weeks. He'd let Josh win. He'd kept me out. And as selfish as it sounds, and as egotistically awful as you probably think it was, I was hurt. I loved him. I'd never loved anyone before. Not in the romantic way. Not in the way I loved him. And I'd always thought love was the bit that made you let people in during the shit bits of your life; not just the good bits. But when the shit bits had come, Rory had kept me out. He'd openly lied to me; every time I'd asked him if he was okay. He'd lied. He'd allowed what Josh was saying to infiltrate our relationship and by not telling me, he'd implicitly told me that telling me would add to his burdens, not ease them. And that hurt. More than I'd expected, to be honest.




Rory and Sebastian Ch. 07



'We'll be late for dinner,' I said, tonelessly. 'I'll drive. I don't feel like drinking.'

*

The whole way over in the car and in the restaurant, Rory kept up a virtuoso performance that everything was fine. He was on spectacular form. He charmed the waitress with just the right amount of friendly interaction. He discussed, at length, a book I'd read on the Spanish Inquisition and different theories about Spanish history. Something which I knew he didn't have a huge amount of interest in. He skirted on to talk briefly about the recession and then the performance of the school soccer team. He discussed his father's plans to buy a holiday home in the Midlands. Or maybe southern Ireland. They hadn't decided yet. Ireland would be prettier, maybe; Midlands, much more convenient. He had no set preference. He told me why Claudia and Caroline both regretted picking Geography at the start of the semester. Term, whatever. And he cleverly avoided asking too many questions or inserting too many propositions into his conversations. If he'd done that and I'd failed to respond properly because of my mood, then it would have drawn attention to the fact that something was wrong. He deployed anecdote after anecdote that was clever, funny or insightful. Only up close I could see the slight tension around his mouth and in his eyes. He knew it wasn't working. He could feel it. And in the ride home in the car, he finally admitted it – silently. 

It was a ten minute ride back to his house and his voice was annoying me. I was running it all over in my head and I was pissed because I knew he must have told Robbie about it before me; then emotionally blackmailed or bullied Robbie, who was more of a psychopath than I was, not to go anywhere near Joshua or tell me about it. They were close enough that if Rory pulled out the best friend card, Robbie would feel honor-bound to accept the request. I was pissed that he was also refusing to acknowledge, in any way, what Joshua had said to him. As we drove, Rory made a few uninteresting and cursory observations about the bad weather and when we got to his house, he unclicked his seatbelt and turned to look at me. I leant in and pecked him on the lips. I'd never kissed him goodbye like that before. I was still at that stage where I couldn't get enough of him. Don't know if I ever totally left that stage, but whatever. Anyway! That night, after the peck, he nodded and opened his mouth, sadly, to say something. Then he thought better of it and stepped out of the car. I smacked the steering wheel and drove home. That night, I texted him and asked him to come over tomorrow. Even through my psychosis, I knew that I was going to do what I'd wanted Rory to do in the first place; talk to my boyfriend first. But no matter what Rory said or did, once I'd paid him that courtesy, I was going to Joshua. That was a promise.

*

That afternoon, which is how I started this story-memory, Rory had evidently decided that his strategy was to be calm. No matter what I said or did, he was going to stay calm. Preternaturally and unflappably calm. And he managed it; I mean, he was practically serene. So elegantly graceful, with a kind of melancholy body language that gave off the unmistakable impression that he was unhappy for my sake, rather than his own. That this was somehow my tragedy, my humiliation, my heartache, rather than his. 

Maybe it was.

After he'd left, after he'd walked out into the rain, I went to my garage and worked out for an hour. I pushed myself, hard. Trying to forget what this would have done to Rory. But the thought of it didn't leave for too long; it came back, blaringly, in the shower afterwards. I dried myself off, pulled on my boxers, light blue jeans, a white vest and grey zip-up hoody. I looked at myself in the mirror and then down at my phone. There was a text. A bullshit text from my friend Daniel about a clip of something hilarious on YouTube. Fuck this - I'm talking to him.

'Mom, I'm going over to Rory's.'

'Alright, sweetheart,' she called from the kitchen, 'drive safely!'

I went out into the rain and drove over to the Mastertons'. It was a November night's darkness. And an English November night's rain. I made some small talk with Rory's mom when I arrived, before walking up to his room, where Rory was working on his homework. Rory's dad would have called Rory down to meet me in their study or something; but his mom was cool. She let me go upstairs. I liked his mom. 

I opened Rory's door without knocking. He was sitting at the desk where I'd seen the Facebook messages the night before. He was wearing a navy blue t-shirt and patterned pajama bottoms. He turned from his books when I came in and looked momentarily surprised. 'Hey,' he said. There was an incipient question in that 'hey' - what's the purpose for this visit, are you still mad, have you come to break up with me?

I simply jerked my head towards me. Rory knew what it meant from experience and he got up, walking over to me. I took him in my arms and pressed him close to me. Holding him tight and burying my face on his shoulder. I felt my chin wobble and then the angry tears pour out of my eyes, down my face and onto his shoulder. I felt him feel them, when his arms around me shuddered with temporary shock and uncertainty; then they tightened, hard. He loved me. 

'Oh, Sebastian, don't,' he pleaded, quietly. 'Please don't.'

The only sound I made was a guttural, childish sob. I don't think I'd realized how much this had gotten to me until right then. It physically hurt and I was squeezing him so hard, I'm sure I was hurting him. 'This is what I was afraid of,' he explained into my chest. He pulled his head off it and looked at me, running his hands through my hair. 'Sebastian, please. Sebastian.'

I lifted my head from his shoulder and placed it against his cheek. 'I'm so sorry,' I whispered. He nuzzled his cheek into mine and smiled.

'It's okay,' he said, lovingly. 'It's okay. Look at me. Look. I'm fine.'

'You're not, though. And you shouldn't be. This is my fault. You should have told me and I should have known he'd do something like this.'

'Sebastian – I didn't tell you because I was embarrassed...'

'You shouldn't be!'

'I know, I know. But, please listen. I don't want you going into school and beating the shit out of him.' I looked away; the thought had definitely crossed my mind. 'Sebastian, I love you and I love how much you're prepared to do for me and how much you care. But, realistically, how much longer can I expect you to find me interesting if all I ever do is cry to you about how fat I am?'

'Rory: shut up. Do you realize how shit it makes me feel when you say that? That I'll dump you the second I find you boring? Do you think that little of me? I'm not fucking afraid of crying in front of you, don't you EVER feel the same about me, okay?'

A few residual tears were batted down my face when I blinked. I went over to the seat next to the coffee table and pulled him down onto my lap, so that he was sitting on my knee. It was a little awkward, because he was tall, but I liked having him this close to me. 

'You have to trust me,' I lectured him. 'You have to come to me with things like this. You have let me be a part of this. Because Joshua Peterly came to you because of me, so I had a right to know. And it's you, Rory. It's to do with you, so I have a right to know about that too. And if that makes me sound possessive, then that's fine: I am, Rory.' I kissed his neck and he smiled, shyly. 'Got it?'

He nodded. 'Just don't kill him.'

'Fine. But I'm fucking talking to him, though,' I declared. 'And don't ever do something like this again, okay?'

*

I found Joshua before registration the next morning. He was standing at his locker with Natalie or Suzanne. Whichever one of them it was. I couldn't tell the difference and I really didn't give a fuck. She squealed slightly, as I slammed Josh up against the lockers. I slammed him again, to emphasize the coming point. 'I used to feel sorry for you,' I said, low and dangerously. 'I used to think I was the world's biggest dickhead for how I'd treated you. But now, I don't feel bad at all. I wish I'd treated you worse. Come near Rory again, contact him again, talk to him, look at him, photograph him, make fun of him or upset in any way and I promise, you'll be picking up your teeth with your broken fingers. This is not a threat, you little shit; it's a fucking guarantee. I love him. I wake up and I think of him. I go to sleep and I think of him. And no, I haven't fucked him yet. But waiting to have sex with him is worth more than every moment I ever spent inside you. And there is nothing in my life I regret more than ever having heard your name, you nasty, vicious, spiteful, evil, vindictive little prick. The idea that I slept with you makes me fucking nauseous. I would do anything for Rory. Fucking test me.' I let go of him and turned to Natalie. I think. 'I never liked your friend and I still fucking don't. And if you had anything to do with those texts and pictures, you should be fucking ashamed of yourself.'

*

Rory turned to me as we walked out of school that afternoon. 'Word on the street is that you threatened to kill him.'

'What do you mean by word on the street?' I asked with a smirk.

'Claudia,' Rory answered swiftly. I laughed.

'I don't know if I necessarily threatened death...'

'At least not explicitly?' Rory guessed.

'Right. Which you didn't prohibit. But severe bodily harm was explicitly threatened, so I guess maybe potential death was implicit? I dunno. I'm no wordsmith.'

'Well, that's lie,' Rory smiled. 'Thank you. That's really nice of you. Psychotic, of course, but nice, nonetheless.'

I took his hand; fuck who saw. 'And you were worried about it! So are we going to come to me next time there's a problem, rather than make me feel shit about myself because I couldn't help? This is what people do when they're in love, Rory.'

'I know.'

There was a pause. It was freezing today.

I was feeling buoyant. 'I mean, I reckon, this earns me at least a sloppy blow-job. Am I right?'

'I don't really like giving blow-jobs,' he demurred.

'Now who's lying?' I teased. 'Pick you up for a drive later?' 

He glanced at me and a flirtatious look came into his eyes. He smiled. 'Sure.'

'See you at eight, then,' I grinned. 'I'll be finishing in your mouth,' I whispered.

'Don't you always?' 

'I love you, Rory.' I shrugged my shoulders and laughed. 'What? I really fucking do.'



Rory and Sebastian Ch. 08



-- This is a slightly shorter story in the 'Rory and Sebastian' series. All characters are over 18 at the time. Chapter 9, set in the week around Christmas, is a much longer one and after the heaviness of chapter 7, I thought something a bit lighter might work for chapter 8 --



I closed my eyes and groaned as Rory's head bobbed up and down on my lap. My car lay parked in an empty car park at two o'clock in the morning, after a Friday night visit to our friend Robbie's house to play pool and watch a movie. I opened my eyes and glanced down at Rory's dark brown hair. I could hear the slurping and feel his tongue twirling around on my shaft. I ran my hands through his hair appreciatively. I saw a text arrive on my phone on the dashboard. From mom: 'WHERE ARE YOU?' Probably best not to answer that one, just yet.

I held him in place, as I shot into his mouth. Apart from the one time when we'd been slightly drunk and he'd asked me to give him a facial, I usually finished inside Rory. I felt him drink down my cum and his lips separated from my cock with a 'pop' sound. His face looked flushed, wet and smugly pleased with himself.

'Get enough protein there, baby?' I asked, tucking my dick back into my boxers and buttoning up my jeans.

'I could probably go for some more,' he said. 'I love doing that.'

I winked at him. 'I know you do.'

He reached for his seatbelt. 'What are you doing?' I asked. Rory looked at me, questioningly. As if I'd spoken Portuguese to him, for some inexplicable reason.

'What?' he asked. 'Do you not need to get home?'

I eased the seatbelt strap out of his hand and reached down with mine to start unbuckling his belt. I held his eye contact and there was a twinkle of amusement in his now. 'Oh,' he whispered. 'Got it.'

'You didn't really think I'd leave you hanging, did you?' I asked, softly. I leant in and kissed him on the lips, at the same time as my hands undid the top button of his jeans. I could taste myself in his mouth. I liked that. I kept unbuttoning and he spread his legs slightly, to make it easier for me. I reached in and started tracing my fingers up and down his shaft, still encased in his underwear. I mewed slightly in my mouth and I smiled. I broke this kiss and tugged his dick out of his boxer flap. 'Besides, I've been wanting to get my hands on this since Robbie's.'

'Please tell me you're going to put more on it than just your hands,' Rory groaned. I kissed his neck and trailed my tongue. I could feel him swallow with his lust and his hand reached into my hair, tugging on it. 

'Not so proper now, are we?' I taunted. 'Tell me what you want me to do. Tell me.'

'I want you to suck my dick,' he breathed. 'Please, Sebastian. Please.'

'And?'

'I want you to swallow when I cum.'

'Do you want me to make noise as I do it?'

'I just want you to get your face down there, right now,' he growled, lowly. I smirked; I loved getting him like this. 

Rory didn't last long in the blowjob. Five minutes; max. I went to town on him. Bobbing up and down at rapid-fire speed, slurping, moaning, tickling his balls, jerking him off, spitting on him, deep-throating him. Once again, he gave me no verbal warning when he was about to ejaculate. But I felt it before it happened. I kept just the tip in my mouth as he spewed. I swallowed and then went up to snowball him. He accepted it without demur. I was hard now and could have gone again, but I did need to get him home and we still hadn't progressed to fucking each other, yet. 

'I love you,' I said, nose pressed to his.

'I love you, too,' he sighed. Still slightly tired out from his orgasm. Good. 'So much, Sebastian. You have no idea.'

'I do,' I said, gently putting his penis back inside his boxers and buttoning his jeans up. I kissed him on the cheek. 'I really do, Rory. Put your seatbelt on. I'm a fucking dead man when I get home. Momma Carson's going to go shitso.'

*

Rory fell sick in the first week of December. It started with a nosebleed in his History class, which he told me about at lunch on Monday. They happened to him, on and off, from time to time, but I could see he looked quite peaky. I got a text from him that afternoon, saying his Mom had come to collect him because his head hurt. That night, there was no answer on his phone and he told me later he'd had a migraine all evening, which only ended when he started vomiting at about three a.m. Obviously, the poor baby missed school the next day and when I called round to see him that afternoon, he looked ashen. Like a reanimated corpse or a nineteenth-century consumptive. Maybe slightly more like the freakishly good-looking type of consumptives that you only see in 'Moulin Rouge.' He was still cute; just drained of all colour and exhausted looking. He was a 'True Blood' kind of reanimated corpse, I guess. Or maybe I was too biased to think that he could ever look like shit. 

'What is it?' I asked, sitting on the edge of his bed. 'Do you need to go the hospital?'

He shook his head, dismissively. 'No, it happens. I fell when I was child, remember? It comes and goes. But I think I might maybe have a bug, so you should be careful.' I took his hand. He looked so tired.

'I really missed you in school today,' I said.

'We hardly see each other that much in school,' he reasoned. He was smiling, though. He was pleased I'd said it.

'I know. I just like knowing you're around. I like seeing your face.'

'You're very sentimental today,' he teased, gently. 'What brought this on?'

I was still in my uniform, but I lay down on the bed and put my head on his chest. His hands ran absent-mindedly through my hair and across my cheek. 'Sebastian, what is it?'

'Nothing,' I whispered. 'Just tired and I miss you when you're away. Plus, it sucks to see you sick.'

'It's nothing ser-...'

'I know, I know. Can I just lie here for a minute?'

'Of course.'

I lay there for about twenty. I told him about school and how about nothing much had really happened. He then managed to tell me that from what he'd heard, from his sickbed, a mountain of metaphorical shit was going down, all of which I'd apparently been oblivious to. One of Claudia's best friends, Georgiana Throckmorton, had a crush on a boy from the local Catholic school, but it turned out that he was sixteen years-old, not eighteen, like he'd said on Facebook. So, Georgiana had spent the best part of the day crying hysterically with shame in the girls' bathrooms. ('Did they even kiss?' I asked for clarification. 'Oh, no,' Rory declared. 'Then what's all the fuss about?' 'Well, the shame of it all,' Rory answered, as if I had asked why someone wouldn't enjoy setting themselves on fire.) Vincent Fenshurst, a snooty kid on the polo team who Rory liked but I detested, had apparently broken-up with his girlfriend, Paula, after six months and she wasn't taking it too well. Rumor on the street (i.e. Claudia or Caroline) was that a kid on the rugby team, Olly Nestor, had slept with his best friend's girlfriend. Both the girlfriend and the best friend went to another school, which decreased the scandal somewhat. Rory wanted to know why, or how, I hadn't heard anything about? I told Rory that whilst rugby guys might tell each other all their sexual conquests, there is nothing that violates the guy code like doing what Olly had allegedly done, so that was why he wouldn't have told any of us. A gossip queen in the year below, Zara-Felicity Nicholson, had been grounded by her parents after her phone bill had come in. Everybody hated Polly Howton's boyfriend, because Claudia had heard that he'd cheated on his last girlfriend. Melanie Armstrong was facing academic suspension if her grades didn't improve and Olivia French had stomach flu. Even from his sickbed, Rory's finger had been kept on the pulse by Claudia, Virginia, Judith and Caroline. I found it cute; a little funny. Even though it was, after a while, something I frankly couldn't have given much of a shit about. Still, it was good to see a bit of color come back into his cheeks. He'd also heard from Virginia a rumour that a very good-looking indie kid in our year, Michael Suzette, was gay and having the mother of all freak-outs about coming out. Rory fitted that in between the news about Melanie's grades and Zara-Felicity's parental troubles and I didn't ask too many questions. I'd slept with Michael twice, at the same time as I'd started sleeping with Joshua Peterly. He was very, very good-looking and a great fuck. But I had no intention of telling Rory any of that. I'm a big believer that what's in the past should stay there, especially when you have a boyfriend like Rory. 

Our history was not something either of us brought up. Since realizing how much it bothered me that he'd implied I was promiscuous the first time we'd argued, Rory tended to give the subject a wide berth. I think, in the back of his head, he did still think that of me. Which was annoying. Alright, I had quite a bit more experience than him, but by the standards of at least half my team-mates, I was by no means a man-whore. Weirdly, though, I did not want to know about his past, either. I never thought I'd be the kind of guy who'd be weird about his ex's past hook-ups, but whilst I knew they'd happened, I still wasn't at the stage where I felt comfortable knowing who they'd been with. I knew there'd been a guy called Stefan, some time before me, but as of right now, I didn't want to know anything else. I was happy just having him to myself, even in my head, for the time being. 

After filling me in on the school's gossip, Rory became very tired again and he was struggling to keep his eyes open. 'Go to sleep,' I ordered. I was sitting up and running my hand down his cheek. 'Go to sleep, baby.' He tried his best to be defiant and to keep his eyes open, but he lasted only a few more minutes before fading away. I leant down and kissed his lips. He smiled in his sleep and I left.

*

Rory had been right when he observed that I was being more sentimental with him than usual. Part of why I'd denied it, or dismissed it, was that I myself was initially only vaguely aware of it and completely ignorant of what was causing it. After all, there was nothing that should have kicked me over the edge in terms of lovey-dovey behavior with Rory. After all, I mean, we'd cleared the major hurdles of saying 'I love you' for the first time and having our first proper fight without me getting like this. And the next major hurdle, of sleeping together for the first time, didn't seem to be on the horizon. (Once again, I'd forgotten Rory's ability to surprise me. Anyway.) I guess part of it had been caused by the fight over, and then with, Joshua. The extent of my reaction had shocked even me, let alone Rory. The depth of pain I'd felt when I thought about what Josh had done to him; the anger, no, the rage, when I thought about Rory being hurt; my own hurt when I realized Rory had kept things from me. None of them were mild reactions, by any extent of the imagination. The sheer extent of how much I'd felt, how deeply and how quickly, was shocking. And it wasn't that I was afraid of it or resented it. It felt weirdly, bizarrely invigorating to feel so much for one person. But, for whatever reason, I felt myself becoming slightly clingier with Rory; less teasing and more dependent. I'd meant what I said when I told him I'd missed him in school that day and why. Knowing he was there, even if we weren't talking, was nice and having him gone made me unhappy. Brooding, even. Robbie and Daniel had both teased me about it today in P.E. I wasn't just in love with Rory Masterton, but for a few weeks, I was, honestly, slightly obsessed with him, too. If he knew it, or if he felt the same way, he kept it hidden. I knew he loved me, too, and that was all that mattered. Especially to him. I remember, a few years later, telling him about this obsessive stage in our relationship and how I'd always thought he was much more in control of things like that. 'Oh, no,' he said with polite yet factual surprise, as if I'd expressed an opinion about a book, history or a new story that was factually incorrect. 'Oh, no, not at all. I worshipped the ground you walked on. Still do, actually. Could you pass me the milk, please?'

*

A week or so after Rory was feeling better, and a week or so before Christmas, he went to dinner at Caroline's house. It was a small get-together for Caroline's twenty "closest friends", of course, and Rory was one of the only boys going. I offered to pick him up after and give him a lift home. Caroline lived about twenty minutes from the Mastertons, along what was mainly country roads. It was a freezing night when I honked the horn, just after midnight. You could see the ice on the ground, glittering in the moonlight like diamonds. I was wearing a thick woollen jumper that my mom had bought me and which I secretly loved. Rory slipped out of Caroline's front door, wearing a sweater, shirt and jeans. He stumbled into my front seat and I could see, instantly, that he was quite drunk.

'Hey, baby,' I said in amusement. He reached over and kissed me, passionately. I was taken aback by it. 'Well, well, we'll have to get you liquored up more often.' I turned the keys and we started driving. 'How was the party?'

'I missed you,' he said, with a slight slur. I smiled; that made me happy. The sentiment; not the slur. 'I kept hoping you'd come early.'

'You like it when I cum early?' I teased.

'I like it when you cum,' he shot back. 'I love you so much, Sebastian.'

'I love you too,' I smiled, putting my spare hand on his leg for a minute, before putting it back on the steering wheel. (Hey – safety first, guys.)

His hand snaked over and started rubbing my crotch through my sweats. 'Rory, what the fuck are you doing?'

'Do you want road head?'

'Do I... No! Kind of, but, no. It's dangerous and I need to concentrate.' He kept rubbing. 'Rory – stop that,' I commanded. He did. Even drunk, he could tell when I meant business. 'We can stop somewhere if we want to mess around. But I'd feel bad taking advantage of you.'

He looked at me incredulously. 'Seriously? Have you seen what I'm like sober? Plus, if you were drunk, I'd ... I just want your dick, Sebastian, to be totally honest. All the damn time.'

I glanced over at him in shock at how filthy he was being and laughed. I liked it. I was getting hard. 'Aren't you saucy tonight?'

'I do,' he said, ruefully. 'I can't wait for us to fuck.'

I saw turning up ahead. A place with picnic tables, abandoned at this time of night. I pulled in and switched the car off. 'Pardon me?'

'Can we make out, properly?' he asked. 'Please.'

I got out, walked over to the passenger side, opened it and helped him out. We started making out, with him leaning against the car bonnet. He was rock hard in his jeans and I was getting that way in my sweats. He wanted it, badly. 'I meant what I said,' he repeated, between kissing. 'I really want it. I want you to fuck me, Sebastian. I masturbate about it all the time. I want it so badly.'

'I want it too,' I said, slipping my freezing hands down into his jeans and onto his ass. 'I do, Rory.'

'Can't we just do it now?' he begged, his lips moving against my throat and his hands stroking my dick through the fabric. 'Just bend me over here and do it. Hurt me, fuck me, do whatever you want to me.'

'Rory-'

'Sebastian, please. I want it so very badly,' he was pleading beautifully. Drunkenly, but passionately. I could feel his penis twitching slightly with lust as he spoke. It was taking all my control not to spunk myself at this stage, seeing him like this and hearing what was coming out of his mouth. 'I want you to stick it in me. I want you to fuck me, bareback, with your big cock. I want to feel your cum dripping out of me. I want to be covered in hickeys and bruises. I want to hurt from how much you've used me, Sebastian. I want it. You don't even know how much. I want to be your property. I want to be yours.'

I separated from him and took a deep breath. 'Okay, I'm about to cum in my pants at hearing you talk like this. And I promise that once we start fucking, and we can start soon, I will ride you to the point where you won't walk right for a week. Okay? If that's what you want. I will fuck you senseless, Rory. But if you think I am going to bend you over and take your virginity on the bonnet of a car when you're wasted, you have another thing coming. I'm go down now and rim your asshole, finger it and suck you off. Then I'm going to take you home and tomorrow, when you're sober, we're going to talk about this properly.'

'I don't need to talk.'

'Shut the fuck up.'

I open his jeans and spun him round, baring his ass to the cold. I gave him one of the best rim jobs of my life, out there, in the night winter air. He was practically sobbing with lust and jacking himself off. I stood up and slipped a finger into his tight hole and he whimpered. 'You wish that was my dick, Rory?' I whispered into his ear. He nodded. 'It will be soon, I promise. You'll be my little cum-slut. Would you like that baby?' 

'Yes.'

I eased my finger out and got back on my knees. I turned him round and started giving him head. He was close to cumming already and bits of it hit my face, hair and sweater. 'We'll definitely have to let you go to Caroline's more in the future,' I joked, as I put his seatbelt back on him in the car. I pulled a tissue out of the driver's glove compartment and tidied myself up.

He was slightly more sedate now that he'd cum, but he said clearly and firmly, 'I meant what I said, Sebastian.'

'I know you did and so did I. Talk tomorrow?'

He nodded and took my pinky finger to accept the promise. 'Zara-Felicity's not grounded anymore,' he revealed. 

'I don't care. I need to get you home, so I can home and masturbate myself into a coma.'

He giggled. 'Claudia's devastated. She hates Zara-Felicity so much, I think she'd wanted her to stay grounded forever.'

He began prattling again and I thought about what to say to him tomorrow. And how much I wanted to fuck him. When I left him home, he kissed me. It wasn't as passionate or as grabby as his earlier ones had been; it was strong, confident and very, very loving. 'Thanks for the lift,' he said, before stepping out of the car and walking to his front door.



Rory and Sebastian Ch. 09



--Most of the stories told in the 'Rory and Sebastian' series are told from Sebastian Carson's point-of-view, rather than Rory's. The only story that's been told from Rory Masterton's POV so far is chapter 5. Originally, this story was also supposed to be from Sebastian's POV but I found it worked better told from Rory's. I hope you enjoy it. As before, both characters are above the age of 18 at the time this story takes place --

A harsh winter wind blew through the town streets and Caroline squealed slightly as we rounded a corner. Virginia tutted and I pulled my arms in closer around myself. Everywhere around us were tacky Christmas decorations, apart from one slightly beautiful window display of the Nativity in the old-style men's suits shop. It looked at least a hundred years old. My grandfather bought his suits from that store.

'I hate this kind of weather,' sighed Virginia. 'It's so annoying.'

'I prefer the cold to heat,' I opined. 'I look better in winter clothes, plus people sweat less.'

'The cold's bad, but it's really the wind that's awful,' Caroline snapped, 'Your hair can survive the cold. There's nothing it can do about looking good in the middle of a hurricane.'

I was glad Sebastian wasn't with us as she said this, but I could feel his eye-rolling in my soul. In Caroline's defence, whilst we obviously weren't in the middle of a hurricane, it was really windy and her hair did look pretty awful. That was mean of me to notice it. But she'd brought it up and it did. It looked someone had back-combed a troll doll and then electro-shocked it. Virginia's still looked fine though, but then she'd used enough hairspray to puncture a new hole in the ozone layer, so that was probably why.

'It's so annoying that Judith isn't here with us,' Caroline continued. 'Do you really think she's actually that hungover, guys? Or is she just lying?'

'Yes,' I said, in Judith's defence. 'I mean, come on, Caroline. You saw how bad she was last night. She drank a vineyard's worth of wine. She's probably receiving the last rites, as we speak.'

Virginia laughed. 'Did Sebastian pick you up?'

'Yes,' I answered. 'I think I made a slight fool of myself, though.'

'How?'

'I was very ... I asked him to have sex with me.'

The two girls stopped dead in the streets, right next to the jewellery store Virginia had wanted to go into all morning. 'WHEN were you going to tell us about all this?' she asked; mouth agog. 'We've been together for what, like, an hour, Rory?'

'We didn't!' I exclaimed. 'But we're having "the talk" about it this afternoon.'

'Why didn't you?' Caroline asked, still in piqued shock I hadn't revealed this the moment we met to shop this morning.

'He said I was drunk and he didn't want to take advantage of me.'

Virginia abandoned her shock and opened the door to the store. 'He must really, really love you, Rory.' 

*

A few hours later, I was upstairs in my bedroom, working on some homework for Religious Studies class. It was already dark outside, even though it was only about five o'clock. I sat leafing through my Philosophy textbook, trying to find some quotes to answer the question that they'd set us for the last paper due in for the term. Or semester, as Sebastian insisted upon calling it, despite having attended school in England for years.

'For 35 marks, outline your knowledge and understanding of one philosophical argument in favour of the existence of God or the divine.' The joys of being an A-Level student, I guess.

I was concentrating, hard, on the words in front of me as I drew out a plan and mind-map about the ontological argument that God existed. My brain hurt trying to get my head around it, but then that was the point of it. I was writing out a quote from Saint Anselm of Canterbury -- we lived in Kent, so it's always good to keep the teacher happy by quoting a local -- and writing notes in the margin of my notepaper when I heard Sebastian's American twang from over my shoulder. 'An a priori argument,' he quoted, 'i.e. seeks to prove that God exists by starting the argument from the POV that it's already been proven.'

'Who let you in?' I asked, dryly.

'Your mom. If it was your dad, we'd be meeting downstairs. Is this for R.S?' he asked. 'Man! And I thought Physics was hard.' 

He leaned against my desk and looked at me. 'A priori argument?'

'It's called the ontological argument,' I explained. 'It's a kind of religious argument or a philosophical one that approaches the issue of proving the existence of God differently from all the others.'

'How?'

'Most arguments start off by trying to prove that God does exist. Which basically means they start off by assuming either that gods don't exist or that it's unproven.'

'Like in most science experiments,' Sebastian interjected. 'You start off assuming you don't know the answer yet?'

'Right. Except the ontological argument starts off by saying that God does exist and seeks to take the argument from there. Basically, God or gods exist because they exist. Because if they didn't exist, we'd never have come up with the concept of them existing in the first place. Make sense?'

'Not really,' he smiled. 

'It's not supposed to,' I shrugged. 'The mysteries of the universe, and all that. Have you started the History yet?'

'Finished it,' he smirked.

'I can only imagine what kind of left-wing nonsense you rattled off,' I teased.

'You're not dating Stalin, baby.'

The question had been on why the Russian Revolution happened and it was a running joke between us that I was right-wing; he was left-wing. 'Oh, come on, Sebastian. The question was about the downfall of a monarchy and like most Americans, you're incapable of taking monarchies seriously, because your culture has reduced them to nothing more than a point of ridicule, in order to make it axiomatic that the system of government you created in 1776 was good, perfect and the summit of logic.'

'It was quite a bit better than Tsarist Russia, Rory.'

'I dunno,' I said. 'There's something pretty messed up about a country that starts off with declarations about the inviolable nature of equality, whilst ten per cent of its population lived in racially-based slavery. Or which still talks about it today, whilst denying fifteen per cent of its population the right to be legally married.'

'Pissed I didn't slip my dick into you last night?' he rejoined. I glanced up at him, in a faux-unimpressed way and he leant down and gave me a belated 'hello' kiss on the lips. 'That'll come, Rory. And my paper for History is incredible. So fuck you.'

'I was only teasing you,' I reasoned. I stood up and wrapped my arms around his waist. 'I'm actually so pro-American that it's frankly ridiculous.'

'That's because my penis is American. And because it's fucking awesome.'

'Your penis or America?'

'Both.'

'Well, they've both been the source of comfort to desperate huddled masses in days gone-by.'

'Ouch.'

'Well...'

'Alright, fuck this,' he sighed. It wasn't an aggressive sigh; more of a 'we've joked around a little, but we're done now' sigh. I knew it well. He nudged me over to the chair he liked to sit on, next to the coffee table. 

'I really was teasing about the America thing,' I said, kissing his neck. 'You know that, right?'

'Yes, obviously. Rory, I'm not pissed off. I just got bored of the conversation. So -- last night.'

'Yes. Last night.' I swallowed and felt momentarily hot. Not in the good way. Clammy, in fact, might have been a far more accurate word to describe the feeling. I had no idea why. At least, not precisely. It wasn't as if Sebastian seemed in any way judgmental or condescending about last night. But I was dimly aware that my request last night was about to propel our relationship onto the next level. The irrevocable level of full physical intimacy. One which it would be impossible to ever retreat from and one which was also inextricably caught up in physicality and appearance. It would require being totally naked and, furthermore, any failure to be "good" in bed would automatically be something that would weaken the relationship. Despite how compatible he and I were, thus far, there was a niggling fear, lurking in the back of my mind, that when full sex happened, I might not perform well and that it would therefore in fact inflict the first crack on our relationship. As ever, I was, over-thinking things and second-guessing myself. But in order to gain distance and composure, I stood up off his knee and walked over to the sofa on the other side of the coffee table. I sat upright and looked at him; as if we were in some kind of Barbara Walters interview. Or a business meeting. He regarded my move quizzically.

'Really?' he asked. In reference to me moving away from him.

'Yes,' I answered. Firmly and slightly primly. 'It'll help discuss things more rationally.'

'I'm not sure that's really the way these things are supposed to be discussed, but okay. Do you still want to talk about this, Rory?'

I could see hesitation etched in every line of his beautiful face. And I was also perceptive enough to see a repressed, cleverly hidden, kind of fear. He was afraid I would say "no." That I would renege on what I had said to him last night in the car. I nodded an affirmative; telling him that "yes," I did still want to talk about this. I think I realised in that moment that in fact a crack would be inflicted on our relationship if he thought I was the kind of boyfriend to say one thing when drunk, then another when sober. As if there was a Janus-like quality of two personalities; one with alcohol and the other without. I wasn't like that and I didn't want him to think that. 

'Yes,' I said, quietly. To re-iterate my nod. 'I want to talk about it. I meant what I said last night. I'm just a little nervous.'

'Don't be,' he said. His shoulders sagged slightly; he had breathed out. He was relieved by what I'd say. 'Don't be nervous, Rory.'

I nodded and looked down. 'I won't be. I'm not.'

'That's a lie.'

'I'm not nervous of you.'

'Good. Of what, then?'

'The pain, I suppose. They say it hurts the first time.'

'Are you sure that's all?'

My head snapped up. His eyes had that shrewd and perceptive look in them. No point in trying to deny what he already knew. 'I don't want to fuck-up,' I confessed. 'I don't want to disappoint you.'

He cocked his head to one side and a sad look glazed over his face. 'Baby.'

'Well, I don't.'

He got up and crossed over to sit next to me. He smelled incredible and the fitted navy sweater sat beautifully on him. It clung to the muscles on his arm. I felt my reserves ebb looking at them and at his slightly clasped hands, the fingers of which were tracing in and out of one another. 

'Listen, I've been thinking about this and, well, how would you feel about a little role reversal for the first time?'

I looked at him blankly. I wasn't sure what he meant and I assumed this was the kind of conversation where one should avoid the grey areas of confusion, wherever possible. 

'What?' I asked. I'd said it slightly too loudly and the correct word, after all, was "pardon." 'Pardon?' I corrected myself. He noticed the correction; noticed the obsessive manners, even in a situation like this. And he smiled.

'Would you prefer it if I took it up the ass the first time we have sex, Rory?'

Well. That certainly cleared up the grey area. 

'I ... uh...'

'Look, I've taken it before...'

'Who from?' I snapped. A trifle too harshly, I'll admit.

Sebastian waved his right hand in the air. Dismissing the question as irrelevant. The logical side of my brain forced me to concede that, right now, it was irrelevant; despite being surprised by the revelation. 'I'm saying, Rory, that if you're worried about the pain, I'm more than happy to have you fuck me.'

I paused for a moment, as I mentally considered, and imagined, sliding myself into his ass. I had to admit that the idea did make me tingle. But I followed my instinct and shook my head. 'No. No, Sebastian. That's so ... I mean, that's just so incredibly sweet of you and lovely and loving and I appreciate it so, so, so much. But I don't want that. Not for our first time. For our first time, I want you to be on top. I want you to ...'

'To?'

'Own me,' I finished, quietly. How mortifying. 

He grinned and kissed me. 'So filthy,' he whispered. 'You want me to own you?' Another kiss. 'You want to be my property, Rory?' I nodded. Another kiss. His tongue slipped into my mouth and I lay back on the sofa. My legs parted and he slid in between them, on top of me, and we kept making out. I grew hard and so did he. We started grinding against each other. It was bliss and torture, all at once. An exquisite kind of annoyance.

'When?' he asked, breathily.

'Which of us has a free house first?' 

'My parents are taking my little sister up to London to see a show on Saturday. They're going to stay in a hotel. I could ask Evan to give us the house for the night?'

'Would he mind?' 

'Not if I tell him what it's for,' Sebastian answered, matter-of-factly.

I sat up slightly. 'You'd tell him?'

'Of course. He's my brother. You think I haven't already told him that we've been fooling around together?' (I cannot imagine that my face was a pretty picture when I heard that.) 'Relax, Rory,' he smirked, trailing a pacifying kiss along my neck. 'It's Evan. I've left the house when he's brought back girlfriends to fuck all night.'

'You're disgusting.'

'That boner between your legs tells a different story.' He thrust against me, tauntingly. 'Friday night, then?' 

I nodded. 'Friday night. I love you.'

'I love you too. So fucking much, Rory.'

*

On Wednesday, Sebastian injured himself in a friendly rugby match against Saint Thomas á Becket's -- a Roman Catholic all-boys' school about ten miles from ours. Since we were Catholic, it had been my family's second choice if I hadn't gotten in to Saint Edmund's. My Protestant grandmother was deeply, deeply relieved when Saint Edmund's pulled through for us.

Irony of ironies, Sebastian injured his ankle in that game. A body part which had come to occupy a curiously erogenous place in our in-jokes, due to the fact that it was the first thing he and I had ever flirted over. He sat on the sofa in his front room, with a packet of ice solicitously placed over it by his mother. I let him rest the ankle of my lap, even though the ice was starting to drip through onto already-faded jeans. 

I didn't like being in this room, since I knew, or believed, from the school's rumour-mill that it was here that Sebastian and Joshua had slept together. On the same day he and I had started flirting with one another. Every time I was in here, I tried to guess where it had been and unwelcome mental images of the two of them locked together in mutually-delirious sexual ecstasy bounced through my mind's eye. I didn't initially think Sebastian ever noticed and he was currently grousing about the fact that it had been his own team-mate, Dominic, who had accidentally trodden on his fairly inflamed ankle.

'Well, I guess that means Saturday night's off?' I joked; careful to keep my voice low, in case his parents overheard. 

'What?'

'You're not going to be able to perform with your ankle ruined, are you?'

He got the joke and laughed. 'Oh. Got it. Oh, don't you worry, Rory. If I lost half my fucking leg, Saturday would still be happening.' I smiled and he lowered his voice to a whisper. 'Dude, you have no idea how fucking horny I've been thinking about it. I'm rubbing out like three or four times a day.' 

'Did you just call me "dude?"'

'Shut up. Seriously. You've no idea what you do to me. I'm nursing a semi right now.'

'That's nice to know - dude.'

'Fuck you.'

I smiled and stroked just above where his ankle hurt. 'I'm sorry Dominic stepped on you.'

'Yeah. You and me both. Idiot.'

'Did he apologise?'

'You don't really apologise in rugby, Rory.'

'Oh.'

'Are you ... eh, are you looking forward to Saturday, too?'

'Did you just stammer? Are you nervous?'

'No!'

I gazed at him; taunting him slightly, but smiling.

'Okay,' he conceded. 'Yes, I am. But, in my defence...'

'In your defence? Why are you nervous? You've done it a lot more than I have.'

'Never with someone I love.'

That stopped my teasing. I nodded and let the conversation drop. A few seconds later I said, 'Yes.'

'Yes?'

'Yes -- I am still looking forward to it.'

At that, Sebastian's big brother, Evan, walked in. He was a lot like Sebastian, only slightly thinner, two years older and he sometimes wore glasses. He was wearing them now. Evan had graduated from Saint Edmund's and gone off to study Law at a university in London. Which, according to Sebastian, he didn't love too much but was very, very good at. Like Sebastian, there was a little bit of a frat-star vibe to Evan; the glasses temporarily covered it, though. 

'Not interrupting, am I?' 

'Fuck off, Evan,' Sebastian said, good-naturedly.

'Have you seen my wallet?'

'I think it was in the kitchen. Next to Mom's magazines.'

'Got it. Cheers, buddy. I'm driving into town; do you guys need anything?'

I shook my head politely. 'I'd kill for some Pepsi,' Sebastian said.

'I'll get a couple of bottles. You guys still need the house on Saturday?'

'Yeah.' 

The two of them exchanged looks and I felt myself blush. Evan tried valiantly to hide a smile, but it didn't quite work. God -- they really did tell each other everything. Right before he left, Evan turned in the doorway and said, 'By the way, Mom and Jenny are coming with me. And Dad's over at the Kirks'. So if the doorbell goes in the next half-hour, make sure you get it.'

'Rory'll get it,' Sebastian declared, pointing to his ankle. Needless to say, I knew that Evan wasn't giving us a heads-up for the sake of the doorbell. Sebastian had his dick out of his sweats and in my hand within five seconds of the door shutting behind them. 'I cannot wait for Saturday!' he groaned. 

*

On Friday night, I suffered the mother of all neurotic breakdowns. It was an internalised, unmistakeable, unstoppable vortex that was tripped off at about eight o'clock that evening when I went for my shower. My bathroom, which led off from my bedroom, had both a shower and a bath in it. That night, when I was about to step into the shower as a force of habit, I decided against it and to go for the more thorough option of a bath. As I slipped into the searing hot waters -- too hot, actually; why hadn't I waited before getting in? -- I felt myself sitting upon the edge of a metaphorical precipice. I began to notice, or imagine, or worry about, tiny patches of hair on my body. The hair that descended from my belly button to my pubis was definitely a weird kind of pattern. Perhaps it was too coarse? I began to obsess that my ass might be hairy. Or certainly unattractive. And after all, wasn't that the key zone for tomorrow night? I had a weird certainty that my nipples might be slightly too large. That the emergent chest hair I sported was unsightly. Should I shave it? But then, wouldn't there be bristle? And that was surely even worse. Furthermore, wouldn't Sebastian notice that I looked different? How many times had he seen me topless, though? Once. No, twice. For a prolonged period of time. Either way -- it was enough. Enough to notice if I changed anything. Plus, there was no guarantee that if I did change something it wouldn't somehow result in making my appearance worse. Even less desirable. Home improvements only become embarrassments when people realise you had to do them and that they didn't quite work.

By the time I'd dried myself off, shaved (my face only) and begun to put on some moisturiser (I have weird skin around my elbows; I think it's too hard), I settled into a quiet, irrepressible hysteria. I even began rattling off a rosary. A full one, which takes forever, and which was something I hadn't done in years. The thought vaguely crossed my mind that praying that I wouldn't be too hideous for my gay boyfriend to have sex with me mightn't be what the beads were intended for. It might even be blasphemous. But I'd never believed that God had a problem with gay people, so I didn't dwell on it too much. Plus, as they say: once a Catholic, always a Catholic. 




Rory and Sebastian Ch. 09



Sebastian texted a few times that evening. Mostly inane chatter, which ordinarily I loved. But my responses must have been too cursory or, with his eagle-eyed attention to detail, he'd somehow sensed that something wasn't right. At half-eleven, he called my mobile. 

'What's wrong?' He asked, by way of greeting.

'Nothing,' I said. Even to myself, I sounded unconvincing. I heard Sebastian sigh. It was a patient sigh, a knowing sigh, but a sigh nonetheless.

'Rory. Tomorrow is going to go fine. Better than fine. We love each other. You're beautiful. My ankle's recovered. And I cannot wait. Please, please, please do not freak out about this.'

The only thing I hated more than freaking out was being the guy who everyone knew was freaking out. Alright -- not everyone. Just the person who felt like everyone. 'Okay,' I said, quietly. I could hear how sad I sounded. 'Sorry.'

'Baby,' he whispered. 'Don't do this. You want me to come over?'

'Dad would freak,' I said. 'But thank you. I'm not freaking out, though. I'm just... Nervous.'

'If I thought it was because of having sex and that you weren't ready, I'd say we should wait. But it's not, Rory, is it?'

I shook my head and then remembered the fundamental point of a telephone and spoke instead, 'No,' I admitted.

'This time tomorrow night, I'll probably be inside you and it'll be wonderful and I'll be so happy. And I hope you will too.'

'You're being so sensitive. And sweet tonight. And very, very patient.'

'Don't freak out,' he repeated. 'Please, don't. We've done everything else, like a hundred times. THIS is going to go fine. And if it doesn't, if for some reason something goes wrong, it will have nothing to do with you. Or the way you think you look. Rory, I just shot the biggest load against my shower wall thinking about you. About every bit of you. Your face, your eyes, your smile, your body, your ass, your cock, your legs. Every single fucking bit of you turns me on. I've stopped jerking-off to the image of anyone but you and me. What more do you want to hear from me? C'mon, baby. Seriously -- allow yourself to enjoy this. You're about to lose your virginity in a way most people would kill to have as their memory. To someone you love and who loves you. Fuck knows - it'll be better than my first time. Or most of the people's we know.'

When Sebastian turned the full avalanche of his emotional intensity -- his emotional honesty -- on you, it was utterly impossible to resist it. You just had to let it crash over you and accept it for what it was. Even if you didn't always agree with him, you knew, or hoped, that no-one could sound so sincere and simply be saying it to make you feel better. I believed -- I believe -- that he said what he said because he meant it. Even if I found myself subpar, I knew he, for some strange reason, found me attractive and I therefore just had to accept that. And enjoy it, as best I could. I loved him so very, very much.

'Thank you,' I whispered. 'I love you.'

'Tell me you're excited about tomorrow,' he demanded. 'Please, Rory?'

'I am,' I answered. Far more clearly and confidently. 'I am, Sebastian.'

He sounded relieved, buoyant; a little cocky. 'Good! I want to give you a night you'll never forget.'

'Ditto.'

*

I arrived at his house the next evening, just after 7:30. It had started to rain and it pounded on the ground and windows in icy torrents. I could not get over how cold it was, even for December. I was wearing a black sweater and jeans. I was trying to go for casual, without overdressed, without being unattractive. Making it look nonchalant had been almost as difficult as holding my nerve in the shower and not texting Sebastian afterwards to say that I couldn't come tonight. He swung open the door and smiled confidently. In fact, it was more bravado. You could tell that he was slightly nervous, too, which was unexpected in him but weirdly comforting. He was wearing a rugby shirt and jeans. He wasn't wearing any cologne or aftershave and I could smell cooking from the kitchen. The house, as ever, was immaculately tidy but I could hear the crackle of the fire from the lounge. A different room -- a more formal room -- to their front room; where he'd last had sex with Joshua back in September. I checked a smile -- so he HAD noticed how much I hated that room? I was touched by the effort he'd gone to and smiled as he kissed me hello.

'You look great,' he said. And swallowed. We were both nervous; at first, there was an awkwardness in our interactions with each other that night. 'I made dinner? Eh, if you wanna...'

'Great,' I smiled. 'It smells wonderful.'

'So do you.' He hesitated momentarily, before we talked into the kitchen. There were two candles on the table. Little ones, that he'd obviously found last minute. I smiled again and kissed him. The nerves dissipated, if only for a second.

Over dinner, I struggled to eat anything. It wasn't that it didn't taste good. It did. It was that I always found myself feeling sluggish and unattractive when I'd eaten anything and tonight those were two adjectives that I was fairly keen to avoid being applied to me. The lack of food, coupled with a glass of wine, made me feel strangely alert. There was a lightness and a sense of heightened elasticity to my entire body. I felt keenly aware of everything around me. I was tingling slightly as Sebastian chatted about school, horse riding, rugby, a new book he was reading. I managed to pay attention, but only just. He ate everything and didn't ask why I wasn't. When my fingers began beating nervously on the table, he reached out and took my hand. It was the only sign he gave of acknowledging my nervousness that evening. Later, as he finished his dinner, I took a second glass of wine. I figured it was permissible to take the edge off what was to come.

'Do you want to ...' he paused; hesitated and searched for the end of the sentence. 'Maybe, uhm, watch a movie or something? Before.'

To Sebastian's credit, he not once suggested backing-out. He held his nerve. I've often wondered what I would have done if I'd been with someone with less self-confidence than Sebastian; with someone who had less tenacity in holding their ground. Part of me thinks that I'd have pulled myself together and pressed ahead with the plan, anyway, but another part knows that it was Sebastian, guiding everything along, that made all the difference. 

I accepted the offer of the movie mutely. It was a delaying tactic, designed to give us both -- and me, specifically -- slightly more time. More time for what? It wasn't as if I would magically discover some untapped inner source of serenity in the two hours it would take to watch a movie. Then again, if I'd eschewed Sebastian's offer and demanded to get on with things, it would have meant making the experience of losing my virginity roughly comparable to participating in a bungee jump for the first time. Best to 'get it over with' as soon as possible. Almost certainly not the kind of message I wanted to send to the man I was in love with. So I agreed to watch the movie and crossed with him into the lounge. He took my hand as we walked.

Sebastian initially suggested the new 'Brideshead Revisited' movie, as a very sweet gesture to the fact that it was my favourite book. I demurred though. Firstly because I didn't think I could handle two Sebastians in the room at one time and secondly because as portraits of gay love go, 'Brideshead Revisited' is probably about as depressing as a Truman Capote biopic. He then suggested 'Interview with the Vampire,' 'Marie Antoinette' or 'All Good Things.'

'What is wrong with you?' I finally laughed. 'Are you trying to set the mood by picking the most depressing movies known to man?'

He laughed. 'Fuck. I don't know why I suggested any of those. To be fair Rory, 'Marie Antoinette' doesn't have the revolution in it.'

'Yeah, and 'All Good Things' doesn't have the actual kidnapping and murder in it. But in both cases, shit goes down, Sebastian.' 

The laughter broke the tension and he pulled me in towards him. We kissed and I felt the relief in his body. When we separated, he nuzzled his head into my neck and kissed it, very softly. That was the moment where we should have abandoned the DVD idea, but we didn't. When the kissing stopped, Sebastian turned on one of the 'Harry Potter' movies, which he is secretly obsessed with, and we sat down on the sofa. I lay down on top of him, as he watched the movie and I watched the fire in the grate. 

I could feel Sebastian's semi through his jeans and after a few moments, I steadied myself and decided to get on with it. I was eighteen, I was in love and this was the perfect situation. Nothing, least of myself, could be allowed to stand in my way. I trailed my hand up, under his sweater, and began caressing his stomach. The hard smoothness of his six-pack never ceased to make me quiver slightly. I was in awe of it; of him. Of the raw physical fitness that seemed so utterly effortless to him. I traced my fingers along the contours of his abdomen and I felt him stir slightly. I kissed my way up his neck and his mouth was waiting for me when I reached it. He didn't break contact when he used the remote to turn off the TV. The room was enveloped in a silence, broken only by the sound of us making out and the crackle and hiss from the fireplace. 

His tongue played along mine. He was a fantastic kisser and I was suddenly drunk on him. When genuine love collides with physical attraction, as well as total infatuation, it creates one hell of a momentum. My whole body was aware of him; everything was about Sebastian. I was lost in him, completely, and so entirely obsessed by him that as he rolled me over and lay on top of me, my own body issues, my own incessant, irritating, annoying neuroses, vanished. It was like they had been stunned into temporary silence by Sebastian. Right now, all that mattered was following where Sebastian led. It was what I had wanted -- what I had confessed to him in the car, when drunk -- that I wanted, in some perverse and probably slightly regressive way -- to be owned by him. To be dominated by him. To be Sebastian's property. 

It was my first initiation into realising that what I might have found slightly abhorrent, and certainly very annoying, in everyday life, was something that I was quite willing, even eager, to accept sexually. 

I was hard almost instantly, but Sebastian's erection seemed to have taken on a new level of firmness. I could feel it throbbing inside his denim and I knew that it had to hurt, being encased like that. I reached down and unbuckled his belt, undid his buttons and pulled his penis out into the air -- all in a matter of seconds. I felt him smile, teasingly, in the kiss. He broke off, 'Slut,' he whispered. He repaid the favour and trailed down to my crotch, before pulling my jeans and underwear of entirely. He tossed them indifferently onto the lounge floor, as he took my balls in his mouth. I arched my back in arousal and in one, slick, fluid motion, Sebastian separated his mouth from the balls and took my entire dick in his mouth. I nearly lost it there and then. I heard him choke slightly, and the sound turned me on, but he soon took his head off and began to slowly fellate me. Only going back to the deep-throat occasionally. My hand gripped his hair.

'Sebastian, stop,' I said, hoarsely. 'Please. You have to stop.'

He looked up at me, with his hand still wrapped around the base of my cock, where he'd been jerking it mid-blow job. 

'I'm not stopping, Rory.'

'No, I mean -- you have to stop that. Otherwise, I'm going to cum.'

'Oh,' he laughed. 'Gotcha.' 

He leapt up and kissed me deeply on the mouth. 'Take your top off,' he ordered, pulling his own up and over his head. He stood up and began to remove the rest of his jeans, underwear and socks. Removing them entirely. 'Now, Rory.'

I stopped and stammered for a second. Without sounding unduly arrogant, I am not stupid. I was therefore aware that at some point during the process of losing my virginity, I would presumably be getting naked. I had, however, hoped for the semi-darkness of Sebastian's room -- not the firelight-bathed glow of the lounge. The request to strip completely brought me back down to earth with a metaphorical thud and I was instantly very aware of myself again. I was aware of the cerebral tick-toc again. 

I kept stammering as Sebastian kicked off his jeans and fluffed his cock slightly. Seeing my pause, he swooped down and yanked the top up and over my head. I struggled, instinctively, but he was stronger and faster than me. It was off and hurled into the corner of the lounge before I could speak.

'Sebastian!'

He rolled his eyes and hauled me to my feet. He kissed me hard and his hand trailed down to my ass. I could feel my pre-cum and his, mixed with his spit, rubbing together. The cerebral began to die away again. I was flushed and breathless when we separated.

'Let's fuck,' he winked.

He took me by the hand, out of the lounge and up to his room. He pushed me onto his bed and climbed on top of me. There was no hesitation, no nerves, no stalling. Nothing. He was efficient and captivatingly dominant. He knew what he was doing and he knew he was in charge. He was getting rougher. I liked that. He could feel how I was responding to it. He planted an enormous hickie on the lower base of my neck. I thought of the one he'd left on Joshua Peterly in September, but then I resolutely pushed that extremely unwelcome image out of my head. Hickies must be something he did when especially turned on.

'Rory, I'm sorry,' he said, pulling out of the kiss. 'I have to have you. Like, now.' 

It was thrilling and intoxicating to be wanted this much. To be wanted so clearly and so urgently. That sounds shallow and desperate on my part; maybe it's both. But it is a wonderful feeling to feel like someone wants you like this. 

I felt nerves. Of course I did. But I wanted him, too, and I was dazzled by him. Completely subsumed by his agenda and quite happy, even thrilled, to let him take control. I nodded at his request and he flicked my legs up into the air. He dived into my crack and began tonguing my asshole. It felt sordid, sloppy, urgent and magnificent. I gasped and then groaned. He didn't emerge from down there for what felt like five to ten minutes; maybe it was less, maybe longer. But as he tongued further and further inside, I could feel my hole expanding, relaxing and allowing his tongue to enter me. I was writhing, gasping and cursing like a shameless bitch in heat. I was demented with lust and I liked it. Loved it, even.

The only real genuine panic I felt that night was when he spat on his finger and slipped it into me for the first time. It was the first proper entry; if that makes any sense? And it did hurt. But I breathed slowly -- careful not to breathe too deeply or too loudly, in case he thought I was upset and should stop. His eyes were on me constantly as he fingered me, eventually adding a second finger. I could see he was trying to gauge when, or if, he should stop, so I looked away from him as the second finger went in. I didn't want him to see any pain or distress in my eyes. There was some, but not enough for me to want him to stop. 

I looked back at him once I'd grown accustomed to the intrusion. He was kneeling between my open legs. I could see the contour of his muscles, the firm line of his jaw, the throbbing erection, the tousled blond hair. 

'Fuck me, Sebastian,' I whispered. 'Now. Do it now.'

He nodded and reached over to his bedside cabinet, extracting a container of lubricant and a condom. 

'No,' I said. 'No. Not that.' 

'Not what?' he asked.

'The condom. I don't want it.'

'But...'

'No. Please, no.'

He nodded again and set it to one side. He then doused his fingers in lube and returned them to inside my asshole. I hissed, only this time with a kind of anticipatory desire, rather than fear. He then coated his dick with a liberal amount. Probably more than he needed to. But given the size of it, I wasn't complaining about the precaution.

He held my legs in his hands and looked down at me. There was a long, pregnant pause. 'I love you,' he said. As the head of his penis touched my asshole. I nodded in response. I was afraid if I spoke my voice would crack.

He breached me and it took every ounce of self-control not to yelp. No porno, erotic story or conversation about sex had ever prepped me for how awkward it is to lose one's virginity. Sebastian was, is, big and he had to ease himself in bit, by bit. I often wondered, although he'd never say it, if it hurt him, too, in a way. I could see him focus as he slid in.

'You're so tight.'

'Sorry,' I said. He laughed.

After a few moments and awkward manoeuvres, he was inside me and he began to move slowly. Deliberately. I pulled him down by his neck and kissed him. For the first five or so minutes of it, he kept his eyes locked on mine. My legs fell down to rest on his ass cheeks, as he slid in and out of me. My hand ran up and down his torso. He dribbled lube onto my cock and began jerking it. Bizarrely though, I was almost disinterested in my own gratification. In anything to do with myself. It was all about him. It was all I cared about. Him.

Towards the end, Sebastian began to pick up pace. A more feral, domineering side of him came out. The rugby guy, if you like. The jock. As he reached orgasm, he began slamming into me far more aggressively. Another hickie was planted; this time on my chest. He leant back, up onto his knees and put my legs in the air, holding them in a vice like grip. He grunted and I could see sweat glistening all over his body. Then, he buried himself completely in me -- balls-deep -- and emptied himself. He flopped forward and kissed me, invading my mouth with his tongue, as the last of the cum spurted into me. There was so much of it. It scalded slightly. I loved it.

For a moment, he lay on top of me. A heavy, comfortingly oppressive presence. He slowly withdrew and I felt empty and stretched as his semen leaked from me. He propped himself up on his elbows and covered me with kisses, all over the top half of my body. He didn't speak. The kisses were lovely.

'Well, I'm not a virgin anymore,' I thought. 'I'm his.'

I felt a single tear spill down my cheek. It was a happy tear, but I don't think Sebastian saw it. I was just very, very happy.



Rory and Sebastian Ch. 10



--As before, all characters in this story are above the age of 18--

I found Rory up a ladder, wearing a red sweater and a pair of beige chinos, placing decorations on his family's enormous Christmas tree. An antique nativity scene was placed near the drawing room's cavernous fireplace and when I looked at it later, Rory nervously hovered behind me. The Virgin Mary and one of the wisemen had been made in France in the 1830s. As Rory pointed out, his grandmother would probably prefer to see one of her own grandchildren's arms broken, rather than the statues'. They were beautiful, in a kind of other-worldly, serene way. They looked like animated chess pieces, posed in an immaculate tableau of a story I wasn't sure I believed in, but which I knew Rory did.

'Happy Christmas, baby,' I boomed as I entered. He smiled and climbed down off the ladder. 'That was nice to walk into.'

'What was?' he asked, as he walked towards me.

'Seeing you like that.' I kissed him. 'It was like a postcard or something. Or an old movie. You looked beautiful. Husband-beautiful.'

He beamed up at me and stroked my face. 'That's so nice. Are we giving presents now?'

He'd spotted the bag I was carrying, which did actually have his presents in them, but which I didn't want to give to him just yet. 'I'd rather give you mine over dinner, if that's okay?'

'Yes!' he nodded. 'That actually works much better for me. I haven't finished wrapping yours yet!'

'I've only wrapped some of yours.'

'Oh. Why?'

I leant in and whispered in his ear. 'Because I prefer barebacking.'

He giggled and walked back to the ladder. As he climbed it, I thought again how handsome he looked. Like someone from a movie a long time ago. He interrupted my thoughts, not all of them particularly pure, with a question about what time dinner was at tonight. I was taking him back to the restaurant where we'd had dinner after our first proper fight. It was such a nice restaurant -- the nicest in the area, I think -- and I'd wanted our first time there to be so special; not an orgy of awkwardness and repression. Tonight was the night to make up for that, I guess.

'Seven thirty,' I answered. 

He smiled and looked over his shoulder, from where he was attaching a silver bauble to the top left hand corner of the tree. 'That's perfect.'

'Why?'

'I have to be back here by eleven, at the very latest.'

'Family stuff?' I asked, coming to stand by the foot of the ladder. He really shouldn't be up there, however low it was, without someone there to hold the base for him. It wasn't safe.

'Midnight Mass,' he answered. 'Heathen.'

'Protestant,' I corrected.

'Barely,' he retorted, with a smile. 'Do you want to watch a movie before we go?'

'I'll have to go home to get changed.'

'Why are you here, then?'

I shrugged. 'I wanted to see you. How are you feeling?'

For the last few days, leading up to Christmas, Rory had been ill again. The same headaches, a couple of nose bleeds, faintness and dizziness. I was beginning to suspect that part of it must be his erratic eating habits and I knew I was going to have to pick up my persistence in hounding him if he didn't eat properly. Even if him feeling unwell wasn't directly caused by his attitude to food, it definitely wasn't helped by it and at times in the last week, he'd look practically anemic. He looked pale. Which wasn't his natural skin tone, at all. He still looked, in terms of his physique, healthy; if a little bit too thin. But when you held his wrist, you'd notice that he was actually quite fragile and it was only the horse-riding he did occasionally with his father, uncle and cousins that kept him toned. Without it, I think he'd have looked a lot, lot thinner.

As I thought all this over in my head, Rory had focused on tweaking a disobedient bauble and he took his time before answering with a nonchalant, 'Fine. A bit better, I think.'

He did look a bit better and he didn't look exhausted, which is how he'd looked the day before - we'd been at my house, hanging out and watching a movie; Rory had placed his head on my chest and dozed for half the film. I'd absent-mindedly stroked his arm as he slept. It was good he was resting. When he woke up, we began talking about New Year's. I was a big fan of the idea of us just staying in and doing nothing. My parents were going all the way to Scotland to be with my mom's sister for new year's and they were leaving Evan and I in the house alone; Jenny was going with them. Evan was clearly planning a rager of a house party, but I was pretty sure that if I asked him -- and locked my door -- Rory and I could just hang out in my room all night. And see in the new year together; hopefully with me inside him. Left to my own devices, I'd like to have spent all of new year's eve fucking my boyfriend and watching crappy movies in the "rest periods" between shagging. 

Rory, however, was against the plan and even a well-timed grinding of him while we were making out, mid-discussion, did not sway him. Since we had both been invited to a house party at my friend Daniel's and it was a 'rugby team-themed' party, Rory felt it would send a bad message if I was the only player who didn't turn up.

'I'd rather be in with you,' I reasoned. 'I'd rather be in you, to be quite honest.'

'I just don't want to be that boyfriend that made you miss the party; we could hang out on our ownsome any time! Plus, Virginia would be pissed if I don't go with them to have some drinks at Zara-Felicity's.'

'So that's what this is really about?'

He took his head off my chest and kissed me on my jaw line. 'Don't be like that. We should honor our commitments, then come back and stay at your house afterwards. We can leave right after twelve. Once drinks are over at Zara-Felicity's, we'll come over to Daniel's to see you guys and hang out for midnight. Then, when it's over, we can come back here.'

'And fuck?'

'Like rabbits.'

I rolled over on top of him. 'Gurl, you so nasty,' I joked. 

I kissed him and we began making out again. But we had to stop when he began coughing.

'I'm sorry,' he said. Getting flustered. He was starting to panic. Like he always did when he thought he'd "messed up" something physical. 'I couldn't breathe. I got a bit breathless. I...'

'It's fine,' I said, helping him to sit up. 'I took your breath away. I am that good, baby.'

He smiled through a cough. 'I'm sorry we haven't been able to... y'know... more often.'

'Me too, but you're not feeling too hot right now and that's fine. Once you feel a bit better and got rid of this, then believe me, I'll ride you until your legs are like jello.'

Rory and I had, in fact, only slept together, fully, twice more since he'd lost his virginity to me nearly a week earlier. Once had been in my bed, the morning after, and another had been in his bed, when his parents had gone out shopping for a couple of hours. Not that I was complaining too much; I was so glad we'd done it and it had gone off without a hitch. I loved him. So very, very much.

At dinner on Christmas Eve, Rory once again refused to be budged on the issue of New Year's. I'd accepted, albeit begrudgingly, that it might actually be quite fun to hang out with our friends, then party together with them, before going back to my house. Evan was totally cool with the idea and had even said that if Daniel's party sucked, which it hopefully wouldn't, then I could bring a few people back to our house to party with him and his friends.

We split a dessert at dinner, which was the most obvious way I could think of making sure he ate one. Back in my car, we exchanged gifts. He'd bought me a new sweater, the new Hilary Mantel novel, a DVD boxset and he'd handwritten a letter to me, which he asked me to read later. I got him a box of flavored lubes (hahaha), a pair of gloves I knew he wanted and a bottle of cologne I thought smelt really nice. Looking back on it, we'd spent too much on each other for eighteen year olds, but it had felt really good to save and to spend the money on him. I think he felt the same way.

After I dropped him off home, so that he could make to Mass in time with his family, I drove to a spot near my house, stopped the car and read his letter. 

"Dear Sebastian,

This is our first Christmas together and I hope so much that it won't be our last. I thought back to that day in September, near the playing fields, when we began talking and I've never been so glad of either a nosebleed or a wounded ankle in my entire life! I cannot imagine what my life, or my heart, would be like without you. I know I tease you all the time, and maybe drive you mad every now and again, but I love you more than it's possible to say. I love you and I cannot comprehend, even to myself, how happy that makes me.

You are so strong and so kind, you're so loving and so supportive, that I keep hoping and trying to deserve you. To be worthy of you -- if that makes sense?

There are so many obvious reasons why I had a crush on you, and still do -- you're handsome, strong, sexy, confident, funny. You have so much presence and charisma. And confidence. You are dazzlingly attractive. But, those are only reasons to have a crush and they're not the reasons to fall in love. I fell in love with you because you're so good. You are so protective, loyal, devoted, clever, deep and ... I don't know. I feel like I want to say 'good' again, because it's your goodness; it's the strength and depth of your character -- it's you, Sebastian -- it's every bit of you, that makes me love you.

Before I met you, I existed and now that I'm with you, I feel like I'm living. Like it's worth it. Like you're worth it. That sounds ridiculous?

I love you more than I thought was I capable of. I love you madly and I always will.

Yours, Completely, 

Rory."

I'm not ashamed to say that I wept slightly, in my car, and thought of my boy, kneeling in the candlelight of a nearby church. The snow had begun to fall lightly and I sent him a text: - YOUR LETTER MADE ME CRY. I LOVE YOU SO FUCKING MUCH. HAPPY CHRISTMAS, RORY. YOU MAKE EVERY DAY WORTH GETTING UP FOR AND I LOVE YOU.

*

The New Year's Eve party at Daniel's was actually a lot of fun. The guys started with several drinking games, one of which I became the essential victim of. By the time Rory arrived from Zara-Felicity's, I was already pretty drunk. I spotted him coming in, flanked, as ever, by Virginia, Caroline, Judith and Claudia. A few of the other popular girls floated in with them; although Zara-Felicity and her clique had gone on to another party at another house. But Daniel had a healthy crowd at his; including our school's rugby, polo and football teams. With the arrival of the girls, and Rory, I was actually quite glad we'd come out, instead of staying in. It was a good night.

I saw Rory pose in the center of his group -- with Claudia and Caroline to his right; Judith and Virginia to his left. They all stood like sorority girls; cups in hands, other hand on hips. Bright plastic smiles painted on their pretty faces. They all looked immaculate, as always; they all looked stunning. Especially my guy. 

Everything about him that night was lovely and stylish. Clothes just sat better on Rory than they did on other people. His hair was freshly-washed, dark and bouncy; he wore a fitted navy cashmere sweater and the beige chinos I liked so much. He smiled across the room, as he was greeted with a big bear hug from Robbie and another of Rory's friends, Victor. A polo player who I, personally, thought was a bit of a dick.

'You are so drunk,' he laughed, when he walked over to me. I'd kissed him on the lips for a "hello." Quite aggressively. There was a lewd cheer from two of my team-mates.

'I had to do the keg stand,' I informed him. 'You look fucking awesome.'

'Thanks, baby,' he smiled. 'Guess what?' He beckoned and I leant in; Rory's mouth was placed right against my ear, as he spoke, in a voice that no-one else could hear. 'I can't wait to get back to your house tonight and for you to fuck me all the way into new year with that big dick of yours. I want to wake up tomorrow with your semen leaking out of me. Just something to think about for the rest of the party.'

The moment he was finished, he turned back to the party and exchanged a friendly wave with Daniel's new girlfriend, Alice; a very pretty girl in our year who was desperate to become part of Rory and Virginia's group. He crossed over to her, giving me one last look over his shoulder as he left. I stared at him and winked. He laughed and I worried for a minute I was going to start masturbating right there and then.

*

By the time we got back to my house, it had just gone one o'clock and I had imbibed four more beers and Jesus knows how many shots, at my team's chanting-behest. Rory was less drunk than I was, but still pretty gone. As we stumbled into my house, I was dimly aware of the scenes of devastation created by my big brother's party. A couple of girls lay comatose, passed out or asleep, in our den; a few guys had stopped drinking where they'd fallen. There was debris and decoration everywhere. But I didn't care -- I wanted only Rory. Now.

As we passed my brother's bedroom door, two down from mine and near the top of the stairway, we could hear the sounds from inside that made it quite clear that Evan was nailing one of his party guests. The sighs and moans sounded familiar. I recognized them as Sarah, his 21 year-old ex; neither had ever quite gotten over each other. Their grunts and squeals had pierced through my walls a couple of times when they were dating.

By that point, everything was either a distraction or a turn-on. I began kicking my shoes somewhere near Evan's door and unbuckling my belt as I lunged in to kiss Rory, as we swayed through my door.

'You're going to get it tonight,' I breathed, yanking his sweater up and off over his head. 'Swaying and dancing with the girls tonight. Teasing me.' Kiss. 'Toying with me. You looked so fucking sexy.' Kiss. 'But you knew that?' Kiss. 'Didn't you?' Kiss. 'Didn't you, baby?'

He feverishly helped me unbuckle my belt and rubbed his hands under my now-untucked shirt, tracing the contours of my stomach. Which he seemed to love doing. 'I was trying to tease you, Sebastian.' Breathless. Kiss. 'Ruin me.' Kiss. 'Fuck me.' The voice dropped to a whisper; another kiss. 'Fuck me, you big rugby player. Show me what you've got.'

That was it. I pushed him savagely onto my bed, then dropped to my knees to undo his belt, open his chinos, pull off his shoes, yank off his socks and then pull his underwear and chinos right off. When they were hurled across the room, I pulled him off the bed and undo his knees on the ground. Then I pulled my dick out of my boxers and smacked him on the face with it.

'You want to be my little bitch tonight, Rory?' He looked up at me and nodded. His eyes glazed and hungry. 'You want to be fucked by your big rugby player boyfriend?' Another nod. 'I'll give it to you then.'

I was drunk. I was possessed by lust and turned on by him. By this side of him that only I get to saw. He wanted it rough, and I wanted to give it to him like that. I grabbed the back of his hair and thrust my cock into his warm, wet, dripping mouth. I thrust in and out; face fucking him. Listening to him choke and gag. Feeling trails of spit fall out of his mouth and onto my balls, my bare feet and onto him. I fucked his mouth savagely and he reached down to start jerking himself off. After a few minutes, I pulled out and walked over to my bedside drawer to get some lube.

'Please, Sebastian,' he begged, still kneeling where I'd left him, 'put it back inside me.'

'Get up,' I commanded. 'I want to fuck you.'

I smeared lube all over my cock and rubbed it on, as Rory stumbled to his feet. He was breathtakingly beautiful and I marched over to force my tongue deep inside his mouth again. I undid my shirt and threw it off.

'Jump up,' I ordered. 'Legs around my waist, baby.'

He did like I'd asked and from there I positioned my cock to slide into his asshole. I was gentle for a moment, but even so he cried out slightly. Even in my haze, I thought for a minute that I'd damaged him. But then, through his gasp, I heard the word, 'Yes,' escape softly from his slips and I went for it.

I began bouncing Rory up and down on my dick. Slamming in and out of him like there was no tomorrow. I kept a steady stream of filth for him, too; asking him if he liked being pole fucked by a rugby player. If his asshole was gaping like he'd wanted. How badly he wanted to be my little cumslut. He responded in kind; urging me on, squealing and grunting; tightening his legs' hold around my waist and his arms' around my neck. 

I slammed him into the wall and kept grinding into him. We then stumbled across the room and onto my bed. We hit the bed in unison and I heard him gasp slightly, under my weight. With his legs, he managed to push my jeans off and I spat on my hand to start jacking him off. 

'I feel so full,' he groaned.

I planted three or four hickies on his chest and neck, before leaning back to hoist his legs up onto my neck, as I leant further back to slide and grind in and out of him. His hole felt so tight and so warm; everything a guy in my position could want. Beneath me, spread out beneath me like my gorgeous property, Rory was writhing and twisting, jacking his dick as we fucked.

I pulled out and flipped him over, to enter him from behind. He got up on his knees. 

'Yeah, that's it,' I groaned, as I guided my cock back inside him. 'That it's -- my little bitch.' I slapped him, hard, on the ass for good measure and then held his sides in a vice-like grip, as I pounded in and out of him. I reached round and began jerking him. A few moments later, he screamed and came. I felt his whole body, including his asshole, contract as he did so; I felt his cum shoot through my hands and onto my sheets. I couldn't last much longer myself and I hurled myself onto his back, giving him one last hickey, before pumping a shed-load's worth of cum into his hole. Half way through, I pulled out to coat the outside of his ass with some of it, too.

I pulled out of him and he turned round. I turned and collapsed onto the bed, putting my arms exhaustedly behind my head. Rory straddled me and traced his hands over my pecks. I could feel my cum leaking out of him and onto my balls from where he was sitting. I let out a contented sigh.

'That was incredible,' he panted.

'You don't have to tell me, baby,' I smiled, as he slipped his thumb between my teeth.

'Fuck me again in the morning?' he said, wantonly.

'You betcha. At least twice. Come here.' 

I pulled him down onto me and we kissed, deeply. Then he snuggled in; his head on my chest, his leg draped over mine. He was covered in hickies, and a bruise from where I'd slammed him into the wall, mid-fuck. Come the morning, I'd feel terrible about that, although he always assured me that it was one sporting injury he was happy to have.

'Happy new year, baby,' I slurred, as we drifted off to sleep. 'I love you.'



Rory and Sebastian Ch. 11



-- This is a short, sex-based installment in the 'Rory and Sebastian' series, as chapter 12 is much longer. Both characters are above the age of 18 when this story takes place --

A few days after school started back after the Christmas vacation, I found Rory at his locker just after lunch. His back was turned as he leafed idly through his books. Nothing he did, in public, ever seemed to be too rushed or too forced. It was part of his inimitable, unconscious grace. The corridor was practically empty and I walked quietly up behind him, snaking my arms around his waist and pressing my package into his ass.

'My father's in the States until next Tuesday and my mom is having dinner with two of her friends tonight. Do with that information what you will.'

He sighed disinterestedly, but he pressed his ass back into my crotch and by that I knew I was getting lucky that afternoon. He asked, 'What about your sister?' 

'Jenny's going to Gillian's after school. So, apparently, my house is going to be completely free between the hours of four and seven. Any idea what we could do with that?'

'Do you have rugby practise after school?' Rory asked, as he found the textbook he'd been looking for.

'Yeah. Meet you at my house at 4.15?'

'Perfect,' he smiled, as he stepped away from me and closed the locker door. 'And baby? Don't shower after rugby.'

*

Rory and I were on each other within seconds of making it into my bedroom. As requested, I'd left rugby right after practice by making up some bullshit excuse to my team-mates about having to pick-up my sister to explain why I wasn't showering. I arrived at my house in my school rugby training pants and a t-shirt, with a zip-up school hoodie. I stank of sweat and there were a few minor cuts and a couple of mud stains on my lower leg. I tore open Rory's school shirt and stuck my tongue deep into his mouth, as we stumbled towards my bed. He was pulling my t-shirt off over my head, right before I threw him on my bed properly.

I left him there as I removed the rest of my clothes myself and ambled over to my bedside cabinet to get out the new tube of lube I'd bought the week before. Rory removed the rest of his own clothes, tossed them on the floor and opened his arms and legs to welcome me as I dove back in on top of him. 

We grinded against each other for a few minutes, making out and enjoying the feeling of our dicks sliding against each other. Rory was running his hands aggressively through my hair.

'You smell incredible,' he gasped, between kisses.

'You like it? You like me all sweaty?'

'You have no idea. Fuck me,' he begged. 

As soon as I was in him, I went at it hard and fast. His legs were flung up in the arm and he was screaming with wild abandon. When his legs trailed down, so his ankles began resting on my ass, I slammed into him, ground against him and then pulled out slightly, so that I could slam back in again. He was leaving scratch marks down my back and bite marks on my shoulder. This was fucking unreal.

He started tugging at his own dick and shot his load in a matter of minutes. I kept going for another five or so, as he lay beneath me, limp and happy-looking, impaled upon my cock. I slammed him down hard on my cock, holding him against the bed and against me, with my hands upon his waist, as I shot an enormous load into his asshole. I roared and threw my head up as I came. When I'd finished, I leant down and kissed him deeply on the mouth. Then I pulled out of him, broke off the kiss and rolled over onto my back. I rubbed my hand over my forehead and tried to get my breath back.

Rory, however, didn't seem to have flagged. He nuzzled himself against me and began kissing my neck. 'That was incredible,' he purred. 'So, so hot.'

'I'm glad you liked it,' I grinned. I hadn't shaved in a couple of days. Nothing noticeable, but up close you could feel a slight stubble. Rory was kissing it and slowly trailed down to my chest and then my nipples; taking each one in his mouth by turn and working it over. He licked down to my abdomen, but skipped over my still-wet dick. Instead, he kissed slowly down my leg, paying special attention to the cuts I'd received during practice. I must have stank of sweat from rugby, and then from the sex, but Rory was making me feel like a million dollars. Finally, he reached my feet and slowly kissed and licked each of my toes, one by one. I groaned; looking down at him there, debasing himself, lavishing such tender, seductive attention on my feet -- it was mesmerizing. Just like he was.

'You're incredible,' I complimented. 'You're so fucking hot.'

He smiled and began working his way up my other leg. When he reached my balls this time, he took them slowly in his mouth, before I spread my legs and he grazed his tongue across my asshole. Slowly but methodically, he kept rimming me and I could feel my dick getting hard again. For someone who had technically been a virgin until only a month ago, Rory hadn't taken much time in learning the ropes. He was sensational. The best I'd ever, or would ever, have.

His head came up and began bobbing up and down on my cock. Then he straddled me and lowered himself onto it. With his spit and the cum I'd left in his ass from last time, I slowly slid in. 

'Are you sure this won't hurt?' I asked; worried about him, even as I enjoyed every bit of the sensation of re-entering him. He smiled wantonly as his answer and kept going. Then he began rocking, back and forth, up and down, riding my boner like a pro. I placed my hands on his hips and began meeting up, thrust for thrust. The entire room stank of sweat, spunk and fucking.

I loved it. And I loved him. 

When we finished again, he lay down next to me; happily exhausted. Some of his cum was still on my chin, from where it shot as he came. The thought occurred to me that I'd need to air out my room, get washed and get dressed before my mom came home. All I wanted to do was lie here, for a while; with Rory.

'We should go away,' I said, still looking at the ceiling. 'For the weekend, or something.'

'That'd be nice,' Rory said, neutrally. He never let himself get more excited than I did about anything, until it was a certainty. 'Any ideas where?'

'Well. You're the one with the weekend place.'

'In Ireland,' he pointed out. 'Plus, Dad might just about be persuaded to let me go away for the weekend with you, but it might be pushing him to ask that we get to do it in his house.'

'But you'd like to go away with me?' I pressed.

'Of course,' he smiled. He reached his hand up above his head, to where mine were, and interlocked his fingers through mine. 

'My uncle has a place in Surrey,' I suggested. 'I could ask him? I think he'd be cool with it. It's nothing special, but it means we could just do this all weekend, right?'

'That'd be nice. I love you.'

I propped myself up on my elbow and kissed him. 'I'll call him tonight.'



Rory and Sebastian Ch. 12



-- All characters are over the age of 18 --

Gaining my uncle, and my parents' permission, to go away for my first weekend alone with Rory was surprisingly easy. My uncle was close to our side of the family and he was Evan's godfather; he liked me and we played tennis together, every now and then. Rory had apparently had to work on his father's permission a bit more, but his mom was on his side, which helped clinch the final victory. I was excited when I picked him up after school on Friday afternoon; I'd gone home to quickly change into jeans, a sweater and pick up my weekend bag. 

The drive was just over an hour and the weather wasn't great, but we chatted easily. He made me laugh with a story about how annoyed his friend Virginia had been in school today and I was pleased to see him toss his phone into the back of the car shortly after we left. All his attention was on us for the weekend. I liked that. 

There was one moment, on the motorway, when the rain got particularly bad and I had to concentrate as I merged, that the flow of conversation naturally dropped off. When I glanced back at him a few minutes later, he'd lapsed into a deeper kind of silence and he was staring out the window into the gray torrents outside. I quickly nudged him on his leg, then put my hands back on the steering wheel. He turned to look at me and smiled a soft, slightly apologetic smile. His dark hair was bouncy; freshly washed. He was wearing a gray speckled sweater and jeans. His handsomeness was as soft and unobtrusive as his smile. Fuck me, I loved him.

'What's up?' I asked.

'Nothing,' he half-lied. 'Nothing really.'

'So something.'

'Yes, but it's not particularly interesting. It was a weird stream of thoughts.'

'What were they?'

I could hear a widening smile in his voice. 'No. I draw the line at being boring, Sebastian.' 

I laughed.

'I can't wait to see your uncle's house.'

'It's nothing too special,' I qualified, 'but it's nice. From what I can remember. It's really decent of him to lend it to us.'

'It is,' Rory agreed. 'I can't believe you only brought such a small bag.'

'I don't plan on wearing too many clothes this weekend, baby.'

'I bet you don't.'

'And why'd you bring so many? The most you'll be wearing for most of tonight and tomorrow is my cum shot across your face and chest.'

'You're disgusting,' he laughed.

'You won't be saying that later when you're begging to be fucked until you can't see straight.'

'Do you ever have any ... I don't know ... fantasies?' he asked, nonchalantly. The nonchalance was a ruse. Rory was capable of being seductive and passionate with ease, but kinky was something he could pull off in a million years. 

'Fantasies or fetishes?' I asked.

'Well, both, I suppose.'

'I could go with being tied up for a little bit,' I shrugged, 'by you. But nothing too weird.'

'No Fifty Shades, then?' he teased.

'Fifty Shades of Gay?' I rejoined, 'Hells no.'

He giggled.

'What about you?' I asked.

'No, not really,' he admitted. 'I'm worried it makes me dull. I just like sex, I suppose. Of the regular, normal kind.'

'Trust me, Rory, what we do is not regular. It's spectacular.'

'I'll take your word for it, since I suppose you have more experience,' he shot back. It was a good-natured jibe, but I scowled. He knew I didn't like that being brought up in conversation. 'Don't pout,' he admonished. 'It was a joke.'

'I'm not pouting, Rory. Girls pout.'

'Then you must be a big ole girl, my love, because, right now, you are quite definitely pouting. Love you.'

I turned to look at him properly and my face cracked into a smile. He was a smug bastard, yes, but I loved him. And he was mine.

'Keep your eyes on the road, Sebastian. I don't want to die tonight.'

*

We reached the house just after it got properly dark. It was a stone cottage, renovated and modernized by my aunt and uncle. I thought it was pretty; Rory, as the child of someone obsessed with architectural digests, thought it was stunning. 

'I'd love a place like this,' he said, as I locked the car door. And then, as reminder of the lifestyle he'd grown up with he added, totally unconsciously, 'For weekends, obviously.'

I hid my smile. Spoiled little brat. He hurried up the path, to avoid getting soaked in the rain, and I fished the keys out of my pocket. We'd stopped for groceries on the way and he was carrying one of the bags. Obviously, I'd be cooking. Rory believed he was a genius in the kitchen, but even the full force of my love for him couldn't make me agree with him. 

'You should've kept your sweater on,' he chastised. 'You're soaked already.'

My t-shirt was clinging to me because of the rain, but it'd been too hot in the car to keep my sweater on. I'd forgotten to put it back on when we got out.

'But then you wouldn't have had an opportunity to perve on me, would you?' I asked, kissing him on the lips. 

I opened the door and we stepped in. A blast of cold air hit us, since the house had been unused for a couple of weeks. My teeth chattered as we stepped inside and Rory, who'd noticed, threw me a smug, triumphalist smirk. He'd been right about keeping the sweater on. Douche.

'Fuck off,' I laughed, in reference to his smile. I put our bags down and searched for the central heating button. The cottage, inside, was pretty, too, and the ground floor consisted of a kind of open plan kitchen, living room with a big old fashioned fireplace, T.V. and a wooden staircase leading upstairs. With the cold shooting through me and my stomach grumbling, even I wasn't horny right now. The bedrooms could wait.

'Shall I cook?' he asked. And he was serious. Jesus.

'No,' I replied, 'you're shit.'

'I am not!' 

'You're a terrible cook. I love you, but you're horrendous.'

'I am not horrendous.'

'Okay, you're maybe not horrendous, Rory, but you're not as good as me.'

He looked at me levelly. 'That t-shirt's a hideous color on you, you know.'

I laughed again. He'd evened the score nicely. I defiantly yanked the t-shirt up off over my head I stood in front of him, topless, and he involuntarily bit his lip. He wanted it. I smirked. 

'Is this a better color, Rory?'

He nodded and smiled, coyly. 'I suppose.'

'Come here.'

He walked into my arms, by the kitchen island, and we kissed. 'How happy are you that we did this?'

'Let's go get a towel,' he said tenderly, tracing my shivering skin with his hands. 'I'll dry you.'

*

Rory seemed like he was going to eat a lot at dinner, but then checked himself. I'd noticed recently that he'd been eating more; in front of me, at least. I liked it and it made me happy, but I knew that he was bound to have good days and bad days. I didn't want to nark on him constantly to eat more than he felt like, because I didn't want to turn eating into a chore. I also noticed that every time, before he ate, he'd stop and stay entirely still for a second or two. Initially, I assumed that he was gearing himself up to eat but then it occurred to me, at some point after new year's, that he was actually probably pausing to mentally say grace in his own head. I don't know how I reached that realization, but I knew, somehow, that I was right.

Rory's religion was something of a mystery to me and it was not one I brought up, too often, in conversation. I'd made the mistake once of probing him too deeply about what, I thought, were the patently stupid bits of his faith's teachings. Instead of rising to the challenge and firing back with some witty repartee, he flushed and fell silent. The only thing I could get him to concede upon, sincerely, was that he did not, in any way, agree with Catholicism's teachings on homosexuality. A tiny part of me had lived in fear that somewhere, deeply buried, he harbored a fear that he was inferior or a sinner, because he was gay. 

'No,' he'd said, quietly, 'I don't agree with that bit. At all.' 

But bringing it up with him or asking too many questions seemed to make him uncomfortable and uncharacteristically shy, so I usually dropped it and was content to lumber along in my own happy agnosticism. Except for the fact that I did want to know what he believed, and why. I wanted to know everything about him and to understand him. It took years before I got the knack and sensitivity to discuss his spirituality with him properly and to get results.

Rory had seemingly gotten more Catholic since we'd started dating. Or maybe, like many religious people, it only became more obvious once I spent more time with him. It wasn't like he was fanatic; far, far from it. Nor that he particularly followed his church's teachings -- his behavior in bed with me proved that! But there was something in him that innately respected the Catholic Church - far more than I, personally, felt that it deserved. He would also cross himself when we passed a Catholic chapel; he didn't like blasphemous jokes, and of course there was the fact that I'd noticed that he had started saying grace, silently in his head, before each meal. Even though I'm quite prepared to admit that I wasn't, and still am not, a big fan of the Catholic religion, I didn't mind it that much and if it made him happy and caused him no harm, then that was good enough for me. But somehow, on some deep and intrinsic level, I'd already realized that when the outward signs of Rory's religion became more obvious, it was because something wasn't quite right with him on the inside. That he was focusing on the rituals and comforts of his faith, because he needed them to steady him. Rory was never very good at telling people his weaknesses or his fears; that's why he got on so well with God. God didn't need to be told; God already knew.

When dinner was over, I lit the fire and we lay down on the sofa together to watch a movie. The rain pounded against the windows and the wind howled. It was the archetypal February weather, but it added to that sense that I'd been looking for. Isolated romance. Rory and I were, at last, completely alone with one another.

The movie was good, but with the fire crackling, the exhaustion of the school day, the drive, the food, the wine and the weather all catching up with us, we both soon drifted off to sleep. By the time I woke up again, the clock above the fireplace told me that it was eleven o'clock at night. The storm outside had not abated, but the movie had looped back to its menu. 

Standing up, I felt Rory stir from where he'd been sleeping on my chest. He looked groggily as I walked over and placed another couple of logs on the fire. I walked back and put my hand down the sweatpants I'd put on before dinner, when I'd changed out of the wet jeans. I re-arranged my balls and stretched.

'We've been asleep a long time, baby,' I observed.

Rory nodded; still clearly stupid with sleep. He leant up as I lay back down, then put his head back on my chest. I stroked my hand up and down his side and listened to the weather; in a moment, I felt the steady, heavy breathing which told me he'd slipped back into his sleep. The heat from the fire and the happy peace of the situation put me into my own doze again. I woke up about twenty minutes later and shook Rory.

'Okay, baby, bed time.'

He reluctantly stirred himself and followed me upstairs. The bedroom had a big bed and timber-framed roof that slanted down. Rory used the bathroom first and emerged in a pair of pajama bottoms and a t-shirt; I went in after, brushed my teeth and stripped down to my boxers. It occurred to me that we mightn't even have sex on the first night away together, given how sleepy Rory had been downstairs. But as I returned to the bedroom, he was sitting up in bed, gazing at me. Now wide awake, with a mischievous look on his face. In the dim light of the bedside table, I could see that his big, brown eyes were dancing. I knew what was coming.

'Oh,' I whispered, with a cocky, pleased smile. 'Well, that answers my question.'

He opened his arms for me as I reached the bed. Our lips and then our tongues met and he laid back onto the pillows, spreading his legs to accommodate me as I lay on top of him. I was hard almost instantly and could feel that Rory was already at full salute. From the way we were grinding against each other, I knew it was going to be a good night. He pushed me off him and rolled me over onto my back. 

My boner had already poked through my underwear and Rory quickly pulled them down, and threw them away. He licked up and down my cock, like it was a lollipop, spat on my balls and began massaging them, and then began bobbing furiously, up and down. Moaning with delight as he did it. I hissed with pleasure and put my hand on the back of his head.

'Look at me,' I ordered. He did and then broke away from fellatio to catch his breath; spit was already hanging out of his mouth. I guided his head back down there and he fucked his own face up and down on my dick. I saw tears start to stream out of his eyes and he was so turned on that he stuck his hand down his own pajamas and started masturbating. He didn't break eye contact with me.

'Fuck! Let me feel the back of your throat.' 

He obediently lowered himself down and I kept my hand on his head, encouraging him; he was choking, spit was falling out of the sides of his mouth and tears streamed down his face. The choking became louder and he was masturbating himself more furiously. When his face was nearly purple, he pulled off and let out a deep, guttural gasp for air.

'Get on your back,' I commanded. He did and I yanked his pajamas off. His impressive erection was pointing at me, but instead I went up to kiss him; as hard and deeply as I could. Then I put my head between his legs and flipped them up in the air. As I rimmed him, he mewed with pleasure and then he began gasping as I tongue-fucked his widening, wet hole. The one I'd devirginized. The one I'd soon see my spunk leaking out of. 

I rimmed Rory for nearly ten minutes and by the end he was nearly weeping through a mixture of pleasure and frustration. 'Please,' he half-sobbed, 'please, Sebastian. Put it in me. Fuck me. Please.' 

I reached over to the bedside table, grabbed the lube and smeared it all over my cock that was still slick from Rory's blowjob. I pointed the head at his asshole and began to ease myself in. He threw back his head, smiled and let out a little squeal of happiness. 'That's it,' he encouraged. 'Oh, fuck, yes.'

I kept going, slowly and relentlessly, until my balls rested against him and I was buried to the hilt in his warm, wet, tight flesh. I was rough with him. I knew he wanted it. I fucked him, hard, banging the headboard off the wall and he twisted my nipples, making me groan. This was intense, visceral and fantastic. I loved him. I loved sex with him; it was perfect.

After a while, I flipped him onto his knees and entered him again. I kept up a torrent of curse-laden abuse; the kind I knew turned him on when he was in this mood. I kept asking how much he liked being my little bitch and if he liked being fucked like one. I reached round and jerked his deck and I could see sweat all over his back. Fuck knows, it was pouring off me by this stage, too. 

'Sebastian, I'm going to cum,' he shouted. 'Soon.'

I pulled out of him and hurled him over, back onto his back. He bounced as he hit the bed and I slammed my full length into him. I slapped his hands away viciously and jerked off his cock myself. In a minute, his whole body tensed, his hands twisted into the sheet, his eyes and mouth hung open stupidly and ropes of cum shot through my hand and onto his torso and even hit his chin.

'Where do you want me to cum?' I asked, breathlessly.

'In me,' he whispered. His head resting on the pillow; his hair now sticking to his brow with sweat.

I pulled myself back, until only my head was in his asshole. Then, with something that I'm pretty sure sounded like a half-repressed roar, I came. A lot. The jizz shot into him and then dribbled past my cock and out of his hole. I held his legs up and put my mouth down there and licked some of the cum out. Then, I trailed up his chest and got some of his on my tongue, as well. And then I kissed him, as deeply as I could. He accepted the kiss and wrapped his arms around my back. 

As we separated, I kissed his cheek gently and then landed soft kisses on his throat, as I collapsed on top of him.

'I'll move in a minute,' I promised, exhaustedly.

'Don't,' he asked. 'I like this.' 

His hands trailed soothingly, up and down my back. I rolled off him in a few minutes and intertwined my fingers through his. We got up and showered together, quickly and mostly in silence. It was an efficient shower, but I soaped his back and he washed my hair. Then we dried off and padded back to bed, where Rory fell asleep again quickly. I found it harder to get to sleep, because of the epic nap we'd taken together earlier in the evening. But eventually, I nodded off.

I woke up at about six o'clock in the morning to see Rory, dressed in his pajamas, staring inscrutably out the window. The rain had eased, into a dull drizzle and it was still mostly dark outside. I couldn't tell what he was thinking, but his body language seemed tense; thoughtful.

'Hey.'

If he was surprised that I was awake and watching him, he gave very little sign of it. 'Hello,' he responded. It was so delicate, so soft and so entirely, disjointedly proper. As if we were acquaintances in the 1930s, not boyfriends who only a few hours earlier had been humping each other like there was no tomorrow. His mind was occupied by something he was trying to hide from me behind a wall of politeness.

'What's up?' I asked.

He shook his head and lied. 'Nothing, really.'

'Okay. Come back to bed, then.'

Lying on my side, I held open my arms and gestured for him. He walked over and lay on his side; I was the big spoon and wrapped my arms around him. He was shivering slightly and I kissed his neck. Our hands interlocked again. 

'Tell me when you're ready,' I whispered.

*

Rory told me what was on his mind later that morning. He may have been ready, but I definitely was not. It was shortly after breakfast. The rain had stopped and we were going to go for a walk along the country lanes nearby. I had just eaten a full cooked breakfast; Rory was listlessly trailing his spoon through a barely-touched bowl of porridge. As I was bringing my plate over to the sink, he said it. 

'I've been making myself sick after I eat.' 

I stopped and stared. As if I couldn't quite understand what he was saying. Or didn't want to. His tone was devastatingly matter-of-fact; his diction was flawless; his volume, quiet -- the only sign, at all, that he was in anyway upset or nervous about what he was saying. After a few seconds of a thunderously loud silence, he finally looked up from the patterns he was tracing with his spoon in his breakfast bowl. He looked at me. And I saw him swallow, as if trying to hold his nerve. It was the same tactic he'd adopted when we'd fought over Joshua Peterly -- he was trying to stay calm, in the hope that it would diffuse the situation and minimize the issue. If he kept his stiff upper lip, maybe then I wouldn't lose my shit. 

'You've what?'

'I've been ... making myself sick.' I saw him start to get slightly flustered, now. Apparently having to say it, out loud, for a second time, was more than he'd mentally prepared himself for. 'It's happened before,' he explained, 'before I met you. When I was younger. When...'

'How long for?'

'Pardon?'

'This time. How long has this time been going on for, Rory?'

'Since about Halloween, I think.'

And that was it; the moment he said that a bolt of rage shot through me like lightening. I hurled my plate from my hand into the wall and it smashed. I saw Rory jump and his mouth popped open. His artificial calm was shattered by my fury. He hadn't been expecting this kind of a reaction.




Rory and Sebastian Ch. 12



Looking back on it, I'm sure that morally-speaking, I should've been kinder to him. Cradled him and kissed him and taken him in my arms. But at the time, I felt so livid I thought I was going to burst a blood vessel in my brain. I thought of all the times I'd thought he was getting better. Of all the times I'd loved him and done everything I could to make him feel better and more secure about himself. Of all the times I'd been so stupid as to miss the fact that he was always tired or pale or that it took him weeks to get over an illness that other people could get over in days. I thought of every time he'd ever gone to the bathroom when we were at restaurants. Of how I'd failed him and how he'd lied. How he was doing the same thing he'd done when Josh had started tormenting him: excluding me. Telling me, implicitly, that he didn't trust me; that I couldn't help; that this was his problem. Not ours. Not mine. I felt my chest constrict with the weight of anger and upset, rage and sorrow, in equal measure. I was furious at him and at myself.

'Are you fucking kidding me?'

'I...'

'Do you ... Rory, fuck! Do you get what this is like for me? Have I not done enough? Have I not held you and cradled you and fucked you and loved you and done everything I can to make you feel better? Did you, or did you not, fucking promise me when the whole Joshua Peterly thing happened that you'd never lie to me about stuff like this, ever again? Have you... Fuck! You ... I mean, are you fucking trying to break my heart?' 

He sat there; pale and mute. No tears. 

I walked over to the front door and swung it open. He stayed where I'd left him: 'Do me a favor, Rory. Don't follow me.'

I walked down the path and passed the wall. For about ten minutes, I walked through the roads near my uncle's cottage. Every moment of the last few months ticked over and over in my head and I felt nothing but a futile sense of anger. How could I have missed it? I prided myself on knowing and noticing everything about him; I liked the fact that he seemed to know and notice everything about me. We hadn't physically had time to become as close as other couples do, obviously, but one of the main things I loved the most about our relationship was our synchronicity. It was our emotional compatibility with one another. I felt it even in our in-jokes and how we finished each other's sentences. Now, I felt shaken in everything I'd thought about Rory and me. How could I believe that our synchronicity was what made us work, when I'd missed something so big? And not just recently, but for months. There'd be times I'd seen him become distant, lost in thought or agitated at himself, but I'd never pressed for what specifically was wrong with him. Because I didn't want to upset his happiness. Because I thought that, at last, we were happy. And now I realized that only I had been. That for almost the whole time we'd been together, Rory had been encased in a private whirlpool of misery. And not once had he reached out to me. Not once had I helped.

As I walked, though, the cooler part of my brain began berating the angry part of it. The guy who liked to read books and think began winning out over the meat-headed boyfriend. What the fuck do you think he's trying to do now, I asked myself. He had just told me. It'd clearly been on his mind to tell me for a while; that explains all the silences. I'd told him to tell me when he was ready, this morning, but when he did, I threw a plate, screamed at him and left. 

I turned back towards the cottage. When I got inside, Sebastian had cleaned up the mess I'd made with my plate, tidied the kitchen and washed his own dishes. He was sitting at the kitchen table; a cup of steaming, untouched tea in front of him.

'The kettle's boiled,' he said. His voice sounded hoarse and far away. There was a pleading quality to it. As if he was saying, "See? I can still do some things right." Poor Rory. My poor baby.

I nodded and sat down at the table-corner seat, next to him. 'Thank you.'

'Where did you go?'

'I don't know. I just needed to clear my head.'

'Okay.'

'Rory, how could you have kept this from me?'

He shook his head, mutely. I looked at him and saw his eyes had almost-instantly filled with tears. Thick tears that soon spilled down his face. He shook his head again and tried to say, 'I don't know,' but it came out more as a cross between a whisper and a mime. 'I don't know,' he repeated. He seemed so helpless.

I reached up and wiped away the right-hand tears with my thumb. 

'I'm so sorry, Sebastian.'

'Rory, we need to talk about this. I've tried making you feel better, but it's clearly not working and if we don't sit down and have a full, painful, humiliating, no-holds-barred talk about this -- I mean with no secrets, no lies, no fucking politeness -- then it's going to break my heart and ruin your life. Can you do that for me? For us.'

He nodded. Another run of tears spilt out of his lovely eyes. 

'Okay,' I said, relieved. 'I'm going to light the fire and then we'll sit down and talk about this.'

I lit the fire and the heavy rain returned. We sat in different places over the course of the afternoon. Sometimes, together on the sofa; other times, I stood by the fireplace. Sometimes, he sat on the armchair, or on my knee. The talk lasted, I think, close to five hours. 

Initially, it didn't go anywhere near the bulimia. Jesus, to use that word to describe your own boyfriend is disgusting, heartbreaking and surreal. Initially, I asked all the questions I'd ever had about how it had started, what triggered it, what Rory thought of himself, what made it better. I asked for the supplementary information I'd always wanted after the piecemeal snapshots Robbie had given me when I first began dating Rory.

Rory answered honestly; sometimes in excruciating detail, like I'd asked. Now and again, he'd hesitate or skip over something that he didn't think was relevant, but which I wanted to hear more about. In this supremely fucked-up situation, even Rory's interpretation of events couldn't be fully trusted. Perhaps his could be trusted least of all, given how differently he saw himself compared to how the rest of the world saw him.

He told me of a childhood in which everyone in the family had praised him for being such a beautiful little boy; always so well dressed by his mother, always doted upon by his grandparents and his godparents. Then, a disparaging comment made during the puppy fat years by a fellow classmate had made him realize he wasn't that child anymore. It was the same version of events given by Robbie; only when Rory told it, the story became dark and melodramatic. He saw it as a case of the kid who'd insulted him saying what everyone else had clearly been thinking and correctly, cruelly highlighting Rory's now-monstrous physique. But I knew that when Robbie, who'd been there on the day it happened, had told me the story, he remembered it as a throw-away remark that meant nothing to the deliverer and everything to Rory, the recipient. 

Rory then described a time in his life when he'd been "fat." I, who'd been at school with him that year, remembered nothing of this. And I was quite certain that I'd have noticed, given that I didn't particularly like him back then but had never been able to rebut comments from other people that he was quite good-looking. Rory, of course, believed I was only saying this because I was now his boyfriend, not because it was actually true. His sad, distant smile when I told him this told me that he didn't believe me, but rather that he thought it was a very sweet gestured lie on my part. He was quick, too, to dismiss my suggestion that his friendship with the girls had exacerbated his problem. The girls weren't as nearly into diets and weight-loss as people outside the clique thought they were. The occasional holiday diet was talked about, but nothing too serious and Rory never, ever brought his problem up with the girls. Virginia knew he wasn't comfortable with his weight, but the only person who'd really know anything was Robbie.

It was Robbie who'd been at his side the last time it had happened, when they were sixteen and Rory had rapidly lost shed-loads of weight, over a very short period of time. That, in fact, I did vaguely remember. It had been leading up to the school's summer vacation and I could remember looking at Rory one day in History class and thinking how thin he was. But, I was uninterested in him then and so I hadn't given it much more thought.

Over the course of the conversation, Rory raked up stories and neuroses that he'd hidden from anybody else ever. Like the agony he felt when people commented on how much alike he and Robbie looked; being mistaken for brothers or cousins. To Rory, it wasn't a compliment. Robbie was so dazzlingly handsome that Rory illogically assumed that people therefore thought he was the "ugly brother" and Robbie was the hot one. It never entered his head that people were making the link because Rory had something of Robbie's good looks; not because he was the ugly version of him. Then there was the new discomfort he'd experienced (exacerbated, if not created, by Joshua Peterly) - that he was too ugly and too fat to be dating me. That I exuded some kind of rude, jock health and vitality and so people must wonder what I was doing with someone like him.

From time to time, I could get Rory to concede that a certain point of view he had was stupid or incorrect. But for the most part, I just sat and listened. This is what I had wanted, no matter how hard it was to hear, and it was agonizing, this is what he needed, finally, to say out loud. It was what I needed to hear, too. 

As it fell dark outside, I realized, though, that no argument, no logic, no platitude, no compliment, no hug, no endearment, nothing like that, could possibly break Rory out of the self-belief that what he was doing, whilst wrong and disgusting, was understandable. He knew making himself throw-up was wrong and harmful; that's why he'd told me. He wanted my help, belatedly, and to be honest with me. He wanted to reach out. But the hateful thing about his sickness was its power to convince him, somewhere inside, that as vile as his disorder was, it was the lesser of two evils. The alternative was for him to be fat. And I just didn't understand that because, as far as he was concerned, I was physically perfect. Which was dumb, on so, so many levels. 

Drained by the conversation and seeing that I had to do something to save him from himself, I sat down next to him on the sofa and pulled out the mother of all emotional blackmails. It was manipulative and disingenuous, but if that's what it took, then that's what it took.

'Rory, I cannot get through to you about this and I really do think that you need to see someone, but in the meantime, I'm sorry, but I just can't live with this. But I can't live without you, either. I've been as supportive as I can, but now it's your turn to return the favor.'

'What do you mean?' 

'I want you to stop throwing up after you eat and to stop skipping meals. But I don't want you to do it for yourself or because you think it's the right thing to do. Because you clearly won't. Instead, I want you to do it for me. I want you to prove that you do really love me and I want you to prove it by stopping all this. I want that sacrifice from you, Rory. No matter how hard it is for you or how fat you feel because of it. You have iron levels of self-control when you want to; more than most people I know. If you really love me, you'll stop this. Prove to me, and to yourself, that you love me as much as you say you do. And Rory, if you don't stop then I know that you don't love me and that will break my heart even more than what you're doing now is.'

He gazed blankly at me for a minute. It's the same face someone has when their king is checked in Chess, but you're not totally sure if they're going to keep on playing by moving him lamely to the next square and just prolonging the inevitable. But Rory Masterton was always one to accept defeat with dignity and after a pause, he nodded and said, 'Alright.' His tone was somehow both hollow and sincere. He would do it, for me, if not for himself. He was incapable, then, of doing it for himself, but he loved me totally and I'd thrown down the gauntlet. He either had to say yes to what I ask or break my heart. And Rory, I knew, would never, ever do that. I wish I'd felt better about my victory, but I felt as hollow and sincere as he sounded. More than anything, I just wished it wasn't necessary.

'Do you promise?' I asked.

He answered instantly. More confidently and purposefully than before, 'Yes. I won't do it again. No matter how I feel.'

I took his hand and we sat there, I think, for ten minutes, in silence. The rain kept going outside and I think that was a moment where a big part of my teenage version of love died away. I was becoming, more and more, an adult with Rory. Because I realized that love -- true love, which is what I knew we had -- would have moments like this. Where it was hard and awful and difficult. But it was still real - and as bad as he and I felt right then, we were in love with each other and we were in this together. 

And he was my guy.



Rory and Sebastian Ch. 13



-- This is the first time the story is told from both Sebastian and Rory's point of view. The first half is told from Sebastian's. Both characters are over the age of eighteen. Thank you very much for all the really positive feedback this series is getting. It means a lot. --

The two weeks that followed mine and Rory's first weekend away together were not easy. Other fights we'd had before had erupted quickly and they'd then been followed by some angst and an emotional make-up/make-out session. But what had happened in Surrey wasn't really an argument and that made things different and difficult. Instead what had happened was the acknowledgement of a huge and fundamental problem in Rory's psyche. By demanding that he tackle his eating disorder solely to prove how much he loved me, I had been resorting to desperate measures. Okay, at the time it seemed like the only card I had left to play, but since leaving Surrey, I couldn't help but wonder (over and over again) if I'd done the right thing. I mean, it wasn't as if I'd had time to think through the practicalities of it -- particularly, what I was supposed to do if he failed. Did I end it with him?

Rory suffered in a different way. He kept his promise to stop making himself sick -- of that much I was absolutely and intuitively certain -- but the cost to him was often written all over his face and readable in his body language. There was a new kind of tension in him that came from the fact that he was fighting against all of his natural urges and that was not easy for him, obviously. The only natural urge he wasn't fighting against was love, which is what I'd counted on when we'd made the deal with each other back in Surrey. Luckily it was his love for me that won out in the end. But that didn't mean that there weren't still times when the pressures of the situation got to us both. 

I felt like I had imprisoned him with an unfair promise that, if he broke it, would leave him not just sick and self-harming, but also quite possibly single and heart-broken as well. And if I lost him, I'd feel the same way. Somehow, I had stupidly made a bargain that even I wasn't a big fan of in the cold light of day.

Within two days of coming home, Rory had also made it quite clear that he believed that since he'd agreed to my ultimatum, I was in no position to demand anything else of him for the time being. He did it subtly, of course - even, in a weird way, politely - but he did it all the same, particularly when he dismissed out-of-hand my idea that he go see a therapist. 

When I suggested professional help after school one afternoon, he fixed me with a very hard stare, then managed to make his mouth move with words of fairly polite incredulity: 'No, Sebastian, I don't talk to strangers. I have a hard enough time talking to people I love.' Any attempt to even mention a psychiatrist elicited a frosty reaction and eventually, I decided to drop it.

So for the first time, being with him was not easy. And by that, I mean that it was no longer easy to be in his company without feeling the silent presence of our obligations to one another: mine to help him, his to beat his bulimia solely in my name, rather than for his own. There was a new kind of awkwardness between us; as if the synchronicity I loved had been shattered, somewhere in the process of us both trying to do the right thing.

The situation was not made any easier, to be perfectly honest, by the fact that Valentine's Day was approaching; a day when we both felt under extra special pressure to be in love and coupley. Everything about it, particularly what to do on the big night itself, was now problematic. How do you go for a meal with your boyfriend, when food is his major problem? Since Rory would not make any suggestions about where to go or what to do on the day itself, eventually I had been forced into suggesting the supremely lame option of a cinema date. Which he agreed to, with something that I resentfully detected to be relief.

I wanted the weirdness to be over, but for the first time I didn't know how to do that. Luckily, it was Rory who ultimately saved the situation and dispelled the awkwardness -- on Valentine's day itself. The remarkable thing about him, then and now, was the personal strength he managed to pull out of the bag, especially during moments of great weakness and pain. He was capable of soothing, confident serenity; a quality I'd first noticed in him when we'd argued over Joshua Peterly's cyber-torturing of him back in November. 

I was sitting upstairs in Rory's bedroom, leafing through a magazine whilst he finished getting ready in the closet next door for our shit cinema date on Valentine's Day. Jesus. He emerged and leant against the door frame. A navy sweater, jeans, a new beige belt, the irresistible, dark hair and beautiful eyes. The smile was the smile of the confident and clever Rory that I always associated with that day overlooking the sports' fields, back in September. I caught a vague whiff of his lightly sprayed cologne. 

'Can we talk for a second?' he asked. 

'Sure.'

'Okay - just listen. I want you to know that I don't feel obligated to you, at all, and that what you did in Surrey was the best possible thing you could have done. No matter how awful it felt at the time. Or since. There are moments when it's difficult to stick to what you asked and there's nothing I can do about that. You're just going to have to bear with me and not take it as a personal insult. Please, don't interrupt, Sebastian; I want to say this to you. Baby, I honestly don't mind forcing myself to do things for the sake of loving you and I think that's the way it should be. Shouldn't it? You said yourself that for months you've done things for me to help with the way I see myself, because you love me. It's okay to ask me to re-pay the favour, particularly when it's in my own best interests to do so. I don't resent you. At. All. I don't feel awkward around you. I'm honestly feeling much better right now than I have done in a long time. I won't lie to you or exclude you from things again. Okay? So please stop looking at me like you're sorry all the time. You've done nothing wrong.'

It was the perfect speech. Of course it was. Even in moments of emotional crisis, he was still too clever to deliver a dud oration. I got up and crossed over to him. I put my arms around him and kissed him on the lips. Then we rested our heads together, touching our noses at the side. I held him hard and tight. I felt the relief shooting through me, as the tension left - the tension that was the uniquely awful by-product of when Rory and I were not in sync; when we were fractured from one another.

I was happy again.

*

--From Rory's point of view--

The weekend after Valentine's Day, my parents went away for a weekend together. It was the first time they'd done that in years, since with me and my three younger brothers, life was quite the handful for my mother. Any other time, they'd had to take the boys with them. But I was eighteen now, Dermot was sixteen, Michael was thirteen and Patrick was eleven. Patrick, the wildest of the four of us, had been shipped off to stay at my grandmother's and Michael was staying at his friend Tom's nearby, but Mummy and Daddy assumed that Dermot and I could now be trusted alone together for two nights. Initially, both of us did quite seriously consider throwing a joint party -- obviously -- but after a lengthy discussion, we decided that tactically it was stupid to do so. Our first time house-sitting together would be meticulously inspected when our parents got home and if we wanted a free house again, then we'd needed to make sure nothing went awry this time round. 

Sebastian had a rugby team social that night, but I'd told him it was okay to come round and stay over afterwards. Dermot knew about my being gay and after an initial bout of weirdness when he'd first found out three years ago, he was now totally fine with it. He also liked Sebastian, very much, and the two of them had quite similar senses of humour. They played video games together, which I thought was adorable until the point where it passed into the second hour of gaming and I got bored. 

On the Friday night when my parents left, I went to see a movie with Virginia and then came home to do some homework, while Dermot hung out in the living room with his new girlfriend, Tanya. (Who was so pretty that she obviously didn't think she needed to develop a personality. I've seen plants less boring. Anyway...) She went home at about eleven and at half-twelve, I went to bed, leaving the door unlocked for Sebastian when he came back.

Just after one a.m., Sebastian lurched into the darkness -- quite clearly hammered. He stumbled over to my bed, pulled his shoes off and tried to get undressed. Hearing his difficulty, I stepped out of bed, grinning, and turned the bedside light on.

'Having trouble, sailor?' I asked.

He nodded. And I undid his belt. Usually, he'd be grinding or making sex jokes, but tonight he just stroked my arm drunkenly. I made him sit and pulled his jeans off him, then removed his shirt. I folded everything, got him a glass of water from the tap in my bathroom and came back into the bedroom -- turning off the light as I got into bed. Sebastian sidled up to me under the covers, lifted my arm up and put his head on my chest, in the crook of his neck.

'I take it I'm big spoon tonight?' I asked.

His only response was a mute nod and to start patting my chest with his hand. 'I love you,' he slurred.

I stroked his hair. 'I know you do.'

He shook his head. 'No, you don't. Not really.'

'Sebastian, of course I do. Don't be silly.'

To my surprise, I felt a few tears spill out onto my t-shirt. This was extremely unlike him. And so I tensed slightly, wondering what was wrong.

'I love you so much,' he whispered. 'When I wake up in the morning, you're the first thing I think about. And I think about you all day and I dream about you night. And I love you. And I'm so obsessed with you, Rory. And I'm so sorry.'

'What do you have to be sorry for? Sebastian, shhh. Don't cry, baby. I know you love me. I love you too. You don't have to say sorry to me for anything.'

He nodded, but in disagreement. 

'I do,' he countered. 'For Josh. For not noticing how unhappy you were with the way you looked. For not helping sooner. But I couldn't have noticed, Rory. I think you're so beautiful that I thought you must be able to see it too.'

The tears were spilling, hot and fast, and I heard him choke a sob. He must be indescribably wasted to be behaving like this, but equally it must also be things he thought and felt deep down when sober. I felt awful and rolled him over onto his back, where I started wiping the tears away from his face. He was silently weeping.

'Sebastian, don't. Please don't.' 

'I let you down.'

'No, you didn't,' I said firmly. 'You never have and you never will.'

'I'm so sorry!'

I kissed him on the lips, but he kept crying. 

'Don't be sorry,' I comforted. 'You mustn't be sad. Poor darling. Why are you sad for me? I'm only really happy when I'm with you.'

'Rory -- I completely worship the ground you walk on and I let you down. You don't understand... how fucking shit I feel about it.'

'Sebastian. That's enough.'

I kissed up and down his face and then rolled back over onto my back, bringing him with me. I cradled him on my chest, where he'd put himself when he first got into bed; our roles weirdly reversed for the evening. But I suppose that's one of the main duties of true love, isn't it? To make sure you look out for each other, equally.

After a few minutes, during which I rubbed his back, his tears subsided and his finger reached up to trace circles in my chin. 'Rory?' he whispered.

'Yes?'

'I want you to fuck me, some day. Someday soon.'

That really threw me. 'Pardon?'

'I've taken it before and I want to take it from you. I ... want to give myself to you. I trust you. I want you to own me, too. I want it. Up the ass. From you.'

'But...'

'I want to be the one you had both of your first times with.'

I swallowed. 'Okay,' I agreed. 'Well, let's talk about this in the morning. Do you want a drink of water before sleep?'

He nodded and I sat him up, giving him his glass of water and holding it whilst he drank. He looked so endearingly helpless. I wiped a little drop away from his lips when he was finished drinking and brought him back down onto my chest, where, in a few minutes, he drifted off to sleep. Or unconsciousness. Telling me he loved me as he faded away.

*

I had been deeply relieved when none of my school friends took against Sebastian. That would've been hellish. Robbie, I knew, was already friends with Sebastian independently of our relationship; the girls, on the other hand, seemed to find him slightly mystifying but not friend-worthy.

Virginia seldom commented upon him and me -- although when she did, she was a good enough friend to concede that it was quite clear that he loved me. Virginia judged Sebastian's worth solely through his utility to me and she made absolutely zero effort to get to know him in any meaningful way. To some people, that might make her seem like a bitch, but in a way, it was clever. It meant that her loyalties were always one hundred per cent on my side and she never faltered in supporting me because of conflicting feelings she had for Sebastian. Later, I'd find out how true that was. 

The other girls were less consistent in their policy towards my relationship than Virginia was. Claudia, who lived for gossip in the way other people lived for oxygen, was initially thrilled and titillated that the school had its first functioning gay couple and that Sebastian, who was a good looking rugby player, was part of it. My rivalry with Joshua Peterly and Sebastian's flammable hatred of him had also kept her merrily occupied in the first few weeks of our dating. But once that died down and Joshua shrunk back off to whatever bridge he'd lived under before, she'd rapidly lost interest and the only time she evinced any interest in Sebastian was when she sensed I wasn't happy -- at which point I knew she secretly wanted me to re-ignite her gossip fire with the news that all was not well. 

Judith hardly ever mentioned him and when I did, she was inclined to get pissy. Judith liked to bitch in the same way Claudia liked to gossip, so I was keen not to give her any excuse to turn on Sebastian. Or me. Caroline, the last member of our group, seemed to quite like Sebastian and she was the only one who actually admired his confidence. But, like Virginia, she seldom brought him up in conversation, except for cursory polite queries now and again about how everything was going. 'He's very sexy, Rory,' she said once. It was the highest compliment she ever gave him and she finished it off with a little wink.

*

I had started going to Sebastian's rugby games quite early on in us dating. In fact, technically before that, since lots of school people came to support the team. It had actually been at one of those games, long before we started dating, that I'd first noticed, objectively, how attractive Sebastian was. Back then, I hadn't given it much subsequent thought. Anyway, Dermot, Virginia and I went to watch him play on the Saturday afternoon after he'd stayed at my house. It was a friendly game against King Edward VI Grammar, which was presumably why the boys had felt it was okay to organise drinks the night before. Saint Edmund's won, narrowly, and Sebastian looked quietly pleased with himself when he emerged from the changing rooms. He dropped Dermot home and then we went out to get some dinner. We chatted about the game and about Dermot's new girlfriend, who Sebastian had been teasing him about; after dinner, he drove us up to a car park overlooking a forest that he loved. It was raining again, now, but it made that green I love so much about Kent stand out even more. 

'I don't know how on earth you weren't hungover today,' I said. 'You played so well.'

'I don't really get hangovers,' he said, with a cocky grin. 'If I did, I'd stop drinking. That much. Maybe.'

'You were very drunk last night.'

'I know,' he said. There was no hint of shame, thank goodness. I hate when people act as if getting drunk was somehow a mortification.

'You remember what you said?' 

I didn't really need to ask him; the question was simply a matter of course. I knew he'd never forget anything like that, even if the alcohol did make him hazy on the exact details.

'Yes,' he answered. 'Of course.' I did see a hint of embarrassment creeping into his face, 'Sorry for crying.'

'You'd lose your shit if I said that,' I reminded him. 'Don't be. It was nice. Even the bits where you were beating yourself up. It was nice to hear again that you care that much, even though it's just awful, Sebastian, to see you upset.' 

'I've never felt like this before about anyone,' he said, with a quietness that was uncharacteristic of him. 'Never.'

I agreed: 'Well, neither have I. It's frightening, I suppose, sometimes. But in a good way.' 

He nodded. I hesitated. He spoke. 'I remember the other thing, Rory.'

'Oh, thank God!' I exhaled and laughed.

He smiled. 'I meant it. I want you to take me, at some point. I want you in me. I bet you could do some damage.' 

He winked and I gasped slightly. Like a lovesick teenage girl. And he burst out laughing. 'Did I just legit take your breath away?'

'Fuck off,' I laughed.

'Oh my god -- Rory, I'm sorry. But you actually fucking gasped.' He kissed me on the mouth and it turned into a proper kiss, then a making out session. 'Have we ever done it in the rain?' 

I looked at him, in my best thoroughly-unimpressed way. 'Eh, no, we have not and that statement is still going to be true an hour from now.'

'C'mon,' he pleaded, running his hand up and down my face. 'We're young. Let's be stupid. Leave your super-expensive jacket here, so it won't get wet and let's just go do it.'

'Where?'

'In the trees, over there. No-one'll see us there, ever. You know that. C'mon. Please!'

I don't know what possessed me. In fact, that's a lie. I know exactly what possessed me: Sebastian did. As he leaped out of the car, I pseudo-reluctantly followed behind him and let him take my hand and lead me into the semi-shelter of the trees. There, he kissed me and pressed me up against the trunk of a tree.

'The first time I ever kissed you was in the rain and up against a tree,' he said, softly, 'It was one of the best moments of my entire life.'

I stared into his eyes and, as unbelievably cheesy as it sounds, I actually did feel myself melt slightly. When we kissed again, it was soft yet possessive. I gave myself over to the situation, like I always did with him during sex. We were pressed completely up against one another and getting lightly soaked by the rain that managed to pierce the cover of the trees, as their foliage returned in time for a very wet Spring. 

'We don't have any lube,' he reminded me. I took the hint and dropped to my knees. I didn't want to take him today; not here or now. I would some day and somewhere where there was more time and an easier situation. This was novel enough. 

I unbuttoned his trousers and pulled his penis out of his boxers. He was already close to fully hard and I began spitting and bobbing up and down on it. When it was fully soaking, he pulled me up, turned me around, pulled my trousers and boxers completely off me and made me put my hands up against the tree as he rimmed me. By then I knew that he was right - this was a good idea. Half-naked, in the middle of the trees and the rain; it was unbelievably bizarre and almost painfully erotic. I felt strangely alive. I'm being melodramatically inarticulate here, but I don't know how else to entirely describe what it felt like. 




Rory and Sebastian Ch. 13



Once he had loosened me up a bit, he pulled his own top off and stripped completely, then he removed my top and made me lie on his jacket on the ground. I shook my head and kicked it away, before lying down, totally naked, on the sodden grass. If we were going to do this, we were going to do it right. 

I spread my legs for him and he lay down on top of me, spitting heavily into his hand and rubbing it along his still-wet erection. He kissed me deeply and I looked up at his blond hair, now soaked from the rain and the droplets running messily down his arms and torso. If anyone had happened upon us there and then, I really don't think that even I'd have cared. I was lost in the moment and ran my fingers across his jaw line, as he arched up and entered into me, very slowly. It was the first time we'd ever done it without lube and it hurt, a little, at the start. After a few moments, Sebastian was buried in me to his hilt and I arched my back from the ground and wrapped my hands around the back of his neck. Slowly, confidently, he began to move in and out of me. It rained the whole time he did it.

I remember, at one point during, as he trailed kisses across my neck, thinking that this was what ecstasy must feel like. The sensation, I mean; not the drug. The one that saints and artists are supposed to feel, when their feelings are so sublimely perfect and happy that they transcend even themselves. I felt like Sebastian and I were the only two people ever to have existed. I don't know what it was, but I felt both not like myself and more like myself than ever before. I must have felt the cold, because by this stage it was freezing, but I didn't register it. 

Today, Sebastian still says the best night we ever spent together was our wedding night, but for me, it was then. I think part of it must have been realising that after all the trauma, tension and upset of the last month -- of my eating disorder, his ultimatum, his discomfort, his stress, my neuroses -- that we were still us. That the synchronicity he sometimes talked about had only been temporarily strained, not broken. We'd been struggling for days or weeks to find a way of getting all the emotion out -- him, in particular, as his tears the night before had made clear. Now, here, we could. He didn't stop kissing me, one way or the other, the whole way through. I came against him and onto myself two or three minutes before he grunted 'I love you' in my ear and sprayed inside me. 

We lay there for a few moments and he giggled, nuzzling my neck. With the orgasms passed, the moment was over, too, and the fully physical reality of lying naked and sweating on a freezing forest floor kicked in. We got up quickly and dressed in our wet clothes. I'd left my jacket in Sebastian's car, which meant I was able to use it to cover my clothes long enough to get inside, up to my room and into my shower before Dermot noticed the state I was in. Sebastian went over to his house to get showered and changed; by the time I came back downstairs, him and Dermot were playing on the playstation again. A sly wink over the top of Dermot's head from a now impeccably-tidy Sebastian was his only acknowledgment of earlier's naughtiness.

After that day, he and I were about to enter one of the most genuinely happy periods of our first time together. I began to see a therapist, although I did not tell him this for the first month. Everything settled into being very easy and very happy, again. My own issues did not really resurface and therapy managed to keep them at bay and to help them, bit by bit. The weather steadily improved and even the impending spectre of final exams and university did not seem to dampen our time together. We slipped seamlessly into a time of synchronised happiness and enjoyment. It was a kind of elongated summer, before the first cracks began to appear that would lead inexorably to our first break-up and my first heartbreak.



Rory and Sebastian Ch. 14



--Rory and Sebastian are in their final year of high school and above the age of 18--

There's a line in one of Rory's favorite books when one of the characters looks back on the happiest time of his life and says that, in his memory, that time is always summer. I don't know why that line stuck with me, because I personally wasn't a big fan of the book, but "always summer" remained in my head for years to come. That is how I remember the time between just after Valentine's Day and the end of our summer exams. Even though it definitely was not always summer and the weather in February was actually pretty shit that year, to be perfectly honest. But the point is, I guess, that for Rory and I, it was the summer. 

*

"Baby, what happened to your head?" I asked. It was the first thing I noticed when I saw him walking into school one Wednesday morning: a big, angry bruise in the middle of his forehead. "Did you fall?"

"Are you serious?" he asked, witheringly.

"What?" 

"It's my ash for Ash Wednesday," he laughed. "You get anointed with ash to mark the start of Lent. 'Sack-cloth and ashes.'"

"Don't look so smug, dick face. How the hell was I supposed to know that?"

"Hmm.. that's true. You are a big, fat, heretic."

"If I called you that, you'd shoot me," I rebutted.

"If you called me a heretic, you'd deserve it," he teased. Deliberately misunderstanding which adjective I'd been referring to. 

I laughed and flung my arm around his shoulder.

"So what did you give up?"

"Sex."

I tripped slightly. Not quite like the inner-ear-problems-level-of-imbalance of Bella Swann or Anastasia Steele, but still, there was a definite jolt. I stared at him in mute horror. If he'd actually decided to give sex up for the month-plus of Lent, I was fucked. (And I use that word ironically, obviously.) I didn't really like the odds of trying to pit myself against God in Rory's affections and see who came out on top.

"Are you shitting me?" I asked.

"Look. I know you don't necessarily understand the whole Catholic thing. But it's Lent, Sebastian. It's the season of penitence; we're supposed to give things up for the forty days. To prove ourselves. Perhaps I'm being silly and taking it too far..."

"You think?!"

"... but I haven't done Lent properly in a while and I feel that I really, really should. Besides, it's only for forty days and I hope that if you love me, you'll support me in this. Please?"

"Rory... I mean, I ... are you really, actually, genuinely serious about this?"

"No, of course I'm not serious," he scoffed. "I gave up chocolate. But your face! See you after class."

As he sailed into his homeroom giggling to himself, there were times were I thought I might one day have to kill him. 

*

That afternoon, when we were upstairs chilling in my bedroom, Rory and I began making out. Everybody was out -- with Jenny at after-school clubs and Mom and Dad still at work. I started to give Rory some of my best work; the stuff I knew really turned him on. I moved over to lie on top of him, pressing down on him with my weight and letting him feel how excited I was getting through my school trousers. I trailed slightly-hard, possessive kisses down his neck and began unbuttoning his shirt, whilst gently stroking his crotch with my fingers. When his shirt was open, I twisted his nipples and then began unbuckling his belt. I could feel how hard he was and his back kept arching up off the bed in frustrated desire. I unzipped his fly; slowly and sensually tugged his underwear down and watched as that beautiful dick of his leapt free. I hovered my face over it and Rory put his hands on my head, tugging on my hair slightly.

"Alright, zip up," I said, sitting up between his legs and give him a light smack on the side of his ass. 

His head rose from the pillow and I've never in my entire life seen anyone so confused or surprised. "Did you hear the car?"

"Nope," I answered. "This is payback for your little Lenten sex joke earlier, baby."

"Pardon!"

I smirked and lowered myself down over him, pressing my nose against his: "Like for like, fucker. You tease me; I tease you." I kissed him on the lips. "Zip up."

I hopped off the bed and he propped himself up on the bed -- shirt open, pants down by his knees and boner slightly deflating. "Are you actually going to leave me here, semi-naked, and like THIS?!"

I bounced a little on my feet and slapped my hands together. I was very, very pleased with my prank. 

"Yup!"

"Do you know what this is going to do to my mental health?" he gasped. "Maybe I'll just start making myself sick again? It'd be your fault."

I pointed at him, half-seriously. "Hey! It is still way too soon for that to be funny, Ror-Ror."

He sighed and rolled his eyes. I loved playing with him, because he always played back. But there was no way he could win this round. I had definitely beaten him and I was feeling very cocky about it. From the losers' gallery in the bed, Rory stared at me, with a keen and calculating look his eyes. They were sparkling with plotting his next move. Then, I saw the flash as he figured out what to do. 

He slipped out of his shirt and shuffled out of his trousers and boxers entirely. He began slowly jerking his dick back to full erectness. I was determined not to give in, but then he began talking.

"Please, Sebastian."

"Fuck off, Rory. You're not winning this one."

"That's fine. Maybe I'll just lie here and finish on my own, since you won't help me? And I'll think about that time on new year's eve and the time in the forest and the time you face-fucked me when you came back from the stables. Do you remember that?" He kept jerking and his back was arching again, just the way I liked. "I'll think about how full you make me feel and how great it is when you start kissing my neck and how we don't get as often as you'd like to have sex, because we have to wait for a nighttime hook-up in your car or when our parents are out. And we have this perfect opportunity and you're wasting it." 

I was developing a boner so stiff it hurt and I began aggressively undoing my tie. 

"Rory, look at me. If I come over there, you better give me your word that you're going to let me fuck you. Got it?"

He nodded. "I'll give you my word."

"Then I'll give you my dick," I promised, cockily. I unbuttoned my shirt, tossed it off into the corner and stripped my bottom-half naked.

"You're a beautiful man," Rory breathed.

"You're a fucking slut and I love it," I whispered. I lay on top of him and as soon as we kissed, the fireworks exploded between us.

He pushed me over onto my back and straddled me. He reached to my bedside cabinet, pulled the lube out from the top drawer (beneath the socks, where I'd hidden it.) And then he slathered my cock in a generous dose of it.

"I love your dick so much, Sebastian."

I ran my hands up and down his back as he lowered himself onto my penis. "Fuck -- I love you, Rory. That's it. Squeeze your ass muscles for me. Just like I like. Fuck! Yes. Rory. I ... fuck. C'mon, baby, move like that. Yeah -- you feel full like you wanted? Christ, you're tight. And hot and ... fuck! Rory, stop squeezing like that or I'm going to cum."

I spat on my hand and began jerking him, as he rode on top of me like a professional porn star. He was doing some of his best work and, in about two minutes, he sprayed across my chest -- letting out a strong, sharp gasp as he did. I lasted about forty-five more seconds, before holding him down to my balls and thrusting up, lifting my ass cheeks off the bed and emptying a fuck-load of spunk into his tight, hot, wet hole.

In the aftermath, the room wreaked of sex -- a weird fetid smell that I'd hated when it had reminded me of Joshua, but kind of kinkily liked when it was with Rory. 

I was still inside him and he was panting on top of me, but through the exhaustion and the sweat, I could still see that fucking smirk spread across his face as he shimmied on down to kiss me on the lips.

"I win, frat star."

*

An hour later, we were sharing ice cream and my kid sister was bouncing around the house with some of her school friends. I leant against the kitchen doorframe, wearing sweats and a t-shirt. Rory, obviously, had re-dressed in his uniform. 

"I stared seeing someone," he announced, casually, after taking a dainty slurp of strawberry ice cream.

"What?"

"A therapist. Not another guy, idiot."

I nodded, taking the information in. Best not to spook him; after all, this is what I'd wanted, even if he had done it without telling me.

"When?"

"A few weeks ago. It's helping."

I nodded again and took a spoonful of ice cream. I didn't know what to say.

"I know you wanted to be included in everything to do with ... this. And I know how much it hurt you when I excluded you before," he continued; not looking at me. "But, I had good reasons for not telling you when I made the appointment and I'm telling you now. Please don't be angry with me. It was the right decision."

I set my ice cream bowl down on the table and walked over to him. "Baby, I'm not angry at you. It's helping?"

"Yes. I feel ... better. Every time I go."

"That's amazing," I said, gently. Trying to get him to see that I wasn't angry.

"The reason I didn't tell you was because I've spent my whole life with this and it's taken over my whole teenage existence. That probably sounds ridiculously melodramatic. In any case, I realized that it was starting to take over us, as well. One way or the other, it's the only thing we've ever really, seriously, fought over. It's the cause of the only times I've ever hurt you and it's been the cause of the awkwardness between us after Surrey. I know that you'd do anything to help me and there will be times I'll need you. Probably for the rest of my life, Sebastian. There's no-one I love and trust more than you, but I don't want to let this ... thing ... take over us, as well. I like having time with you when I'm not thinking about it. When I feel confident. And attractive, even. Which I've never in my life felt before, but you make me feel it all the time. I like us, without "it." And it helps to go to the doctor and to get it out, without you. And then to come back and just be happy with you. And I can't promise that it will always be like this, because there may be still be times when I freak out or when I need you to hold me, but for now, although I wanted you to know about the doctor, because I know you wanted me to go and I know you want to know all the important stuff, what I really want is for us to just be us. And to be happy. Because that's how I think of us: as happy."

I leant down and kissed him. I have him multiple kisses on his lips and I held his head. And when we stopped kissing, I pressed my nose against his and smiled. And that was all we said about it again, for a long, long time. 

The extent to which I was totally and completely in love with this guy still amazes me. And that is the greatest happiness of my life, by far.

*

One night when I had been more or less fucked off my face on alcohol, I had told Rory that I wanted to try out sex with me receiving, rather than him. I'd made sure to remind me of this when I was sober the next day, so that he knew I'd been serious. Rory wasn't my first anything -- except love, which, let's face it, is by far the most important first. He was also my last and, I'm pretty sure, only, actually. But, whatever, I'm getting ahead of myself. 

Right before I'd started sleeping with Joshua Peterly, I'd had a very brief fling with a guy called Will, who was in the same year as us at Saint Thomas á Becket's and played on their rugby team. I liked Will, I guess, but we had nothing much in common apart from rugby and sex. We'd fucked four or five times, after rugby socials, and it'd been great. I'd taken it up the ass from him and quite liked it. 

After that, I'd started fooling around with a kid called Michael Suzette, a good-looking indie kid in our year who had been in the closet at the time. The first time we slept together, I'd figured it was best to receive again and it was okay. But Michael was never very good in bed when giving it - when receiving though, he turned out to be an awesome lay. Although he was beautiful, his dick wasn't very big and I got bored of the whole closeted thing. I called it off and I never told anyone about us -- even when he came out later that year -- and I'd moved on from Michael, pretty much simultaneously, to the epic disaster that was my involvement with Joshua Peterly. 

Now, I wanted Rory to have what Will and Michael had done. Plus, I liked it when he got all butch and ruffled and sexy. When the polished little prince fell away. I wanted him to fuck me. I wanted to give that to him, even though, weirdly, he didn't seem totally keen on the idea. I knew instinctively that part of his reluctance stemmed from nerves and that he was worried that if he was "on top," he'd be the one in charge -- i.e. I wouldn't be guiding him and that if the sex was bad, it would therefore be his "fault." 

I finally called him out on it in the car one night and announced, brutally and casually, that I wanted fucked up the ass by him that weekend and that I'd masturbated about it the night before. Sometimes subtlety just doesn't get you the results you need, folks.

*

However, Rory's first time being on top was not a total success. Firstly, even I wasn't sure whether to be on my knees or on my back, which resulted in a weird, awkward half-wobble when I got on the bed. Secondly, it took Rory quite a long time to get hard and I had to get down and blow him to help out. It wasn't that the sex was bad; we both ended up cumming, but it wasn't great. It just wasn't fun, really, and I was annoyed at myself for not making it as good as our sex usually was. Rory, true to form, was quiet afterwards; clearly pissed at himself. It'd also hurt quite a bit, because it had been a while since I'd been with anyone in that way and Rory's dick was quite a bit bigger, and thicker, than Michael Suzette's. All in all, it was a failure and so the next day I rode the fuck out of him, with his legs around me as he bounced up and down on my dick. We didn't try role reversal again for a long, long time.

*

Since we lived only a couple of hours drive from London, sometimes my brother Evan would come back home for the weekend. Which was awesome since I think, apart from Rory, Evan is my best friend. Since his house party at new year's, Evan had gotten back together with his ex-girlfriend, Sarah, who he'd slept with that night and who he'd also dated for most of the last two years of high school. The two of them had broken-up shortly after going to college, but since new year's they'd been pretty much in constant contact and they'd both realized how much they missed each other. I'd definitely noticed the difference in Evan since he'd gotten back together with Sarah; he was much, much happier and more at ease with himself. It was great to see. 

On one of the weekends when he was back from uni, Sarah came back from her college in Manchester, which is quite a bit further away from where we lived in Kent, and we made plans to go out for dinner together -- both couples -- on the Friday night. We'd made plans to go to this nice Italian place, near to where we lived, and the reservation was for eight o'clock. 

I really liked the idea when Sarah had suggested it to me over Facebook one night. I thought for a minute that Rory might be a little bit nervous about; I don't know why. Maybe because it was related to food? But I'd forgotten that if there was one thing Rory could do without a moment's hesitation, it was to socialize. From the moment he met someone, he had an indefinable and inimitable ability to charm them and to put them at their ease. I'd experienced it myself the first time I'd noticed him; that day overlooking the school rugby pitches. When the wind had caught his tie and he'd looked at me properly for the first time in his life. That wonderful day.

On the evening of the date, Evan wandered into my room, which was next to his, topless and tousle-haired. Evan looked a lot like me, I guess, except for the fact that his hair was a kind of sandy brown, where mine was blond, and he has our dad's nose. I was wearing nothing but my briefs and was only out of the shower by about five minutes.

"Seb, do you have a shirt I can borrow? All of mine are wrinkled and I didn't bring any back with me from college."

"Sure," I said, dismissively. "Help yourself."

Evan burped and opened my closet. 

"Tonight'll be good," I said to his back, as I pulled on a pair of jeans.

"Yeah, definitely," he said, not turning round. "It'll be nice to spend some proper time with Rory. Get to know him a bit more. I'm going to take this one."

As he pulled on my shirt, I spoke seriously to him, "Listen, Evan, do me a favor and don't make any jokes to Rory about hearing us having sex? He'd shoot himself on the spot."

"Dude, do you think I'm a fucking idiot? Of course I won't say anything like that. Like you'd turn round to Sarah and be like, 'Oh, you sound different when my brother's dick isn't inside you'?"

I laughed and jokingly grabbed my crotch. "They can't get enough of that Carson lovin', can they?"

"It's because we're such amazing lovers."

"Obviously. Hereditary sex appeal," I smiled. "How are things going with Sarah?"

"So well, Seb. Not like last time. It's amazing."

I tossed him a can of my deodorant and opened a drawer. I was going to wear a sweater tonight, since we weren't going anywhere too fancy and I didn't want to turn up in a shirt, as if Evan and I had decided to deliberately match. 

I picked out a red round neck sweater.

"Dude, can I ask you something?" I said.

"Sure?"

"Don't you ever feel like ... I dunno... you and her fucked up? Don't you get pissed that you wasted so much time being apart for the last two years? They're two years you're never getting back."

"No," he answered, honestly and firmly. "Not at all. I mean, yeah, of course I think it's a pity it all went so wrong. But, the way I see it is that we needed to be apart from each other for a while to really appreciate what we had and how much we needed each other."

"That's awesome. See, sometimes I think that I've been in the same school with Rory and I've known him for nearly five years, but we only got together now. It's fucking annoying to think of all the time I wasted with dickheads like Josh Peterly, when I could have had even longer being with Rory."

"But didn't you tell me that you and Rory barely noticed each other before the start of this year?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, then it wasn't meant to be then. Clearly. When you noticed each other, that was the right time for you. Look how great it's going. There's no guarantee that if you'd gotten together before the time was right that you wouldn't have ruined everything and already broken up by now. There's no point getting upset over could haves, Seb. How many people realistically get together and stay together as teenagers? Almost no one I know. You and Rory got together when you'd become men and that's the best way to be. Plus, by fucking around with people like Josh you can see how much better Rory is for you. If you hadn't had a couple of shitty experiences with assholes like Josh, you mightn't fully get how lucky you and Rory have been to find each other."

"Is that how you felt about girls you got with when you and Sarah weren't together?"

He looked at me and grinned, cheekily. It was a Carson grin. "Well, I didn't get with anyone too nasty or fucked-up. I just got with ... eh, quite a lot... of people."

"Slut," I laughed. 

"You get bored of it after a while," Evan explained. "After a year or so in college, fucking around starts to get to you. It's weirdly fucking lonely -- y'know?"




Rory and Sebastian Ch. 14



"I know that's the route I'd've gone down if I'd never met Rory," I said. I didn't judge my brother, at all. I fucking love sex and I'd always assumed that college would be my slutty years, but having met Rory, I could see completely what Evan was saying when he said that after a while, all it had done was make him appreciate Sarah more.

*

Sarah and Rory hit it off right away. Sarah was bright and pretty, with long blonde hair and a killer smile. She was studying French at university and her and Rory chatted away about an obscure French play that I'd never heard of, but made a mental note to ask him about on the way home. It's always good to learn, especially from someone you love.

"So, what universities have you applied to?" she asked.

"Saint Andrew's is my first choice."

"He should've gone for Oxford or Cambridge," I interjected. And I was right. He should have.

"Saint Andrew's is my first choice," he continued, smiling at me. "Then Trinity in Dublin, Durham and my back-up is Southampton."

"And what do you want to do?"

"History with Theology," he answered, taking a sip of diet lemonade. "History with Politics, if I go to Trinity."

"Fab," she said, enthusiastically. "And what about you, Seb? Evan said it's London?"

"Yeah," I said, forking a piece of pasta. "UCL is my first choice, then Herriot Watt in Edinburgh, Manchester and Cardiff."

"Well, it'll be very handy for you two if you get into Herriot Watt," Sarah said, tossing her hair over her shoulders. "Much easier to stay together that way."

I saw Evan look at her, with a kind of indulgent "shut up" expression. I, however, was not feeling amused. I liked Sarah; I really did. But there was no fucking need to imply that a train schedule and geographical proximity were the only two reasons why Rory and I would be able to stay together once we went to college.

"We'll be fine, either way," I declared. Trying not to sound too rude, but still coming across as firm. I put my hand on Rory's leg under the table. "Won't we?"

"Yes," he answered. "Obviously, Herriot Watt would be a lot easier, though. Although I know you'll get what you need to get into UCL. Do you like Manchester?"

"As a city?" Sarah asked. 

I zoned out of the conversation and glowered slightly. This was not the first time that I'd picked up on something non-committal in the way Rory answered questions about our future. He seemed more comfortable discussing marriage than he did staying together at college. Which was just fucking bizarre. I mean, yes, him and Sarah were technically right -- having to travel a half hour from Edinburgh to Saint Andrew's would be a hell of a lot easier than a 12 hour train ride from London. But was there really a need to point that out on a casual double date? What the fuck did she know about our relationship? Plus, I was kind of pissed at Rory for backing up what Sarah had said, when I'd just corrected her. I hunched a bit more over my plate, before feeling a gentle nudge on my knee from Evan's leg. He was telling me to stop being a fucking baby. I sat up straight and smiled ruefully at him.

*

"Are you annoyed with me?" 

I shook my head as I drove Rory home. 

"Well that's convincing."

I exhaled slightly, conceding his point that I wasn't hiding my annoyance very well. "I didn't like what Sarah said about us staying together."

"The Herriot Watt thing?"

"Yes."

He sighed and stroked my leg. "Sebastian, she didn't mean anything by it. She's blatantly right. If we were closer together geographically, of course it'd make our relationship easier."

"She didn't say that, though, Rory. She said that it would make staying together easier. That is not the same thing."

"I think you're maybe reading too much into it."

"To be honest, I'm more upset about the fact that you agreed with her."

"You wanted me to question her factual observation of rudimentary British geography?" he asked, incredulously. "You wanted me to query if Edinburgh was closer to Saint Andrew's than London?"

"Don't be a prick," I snapped. "I wanted you to agree with me when I said we'd have no problem staying together."

"Well, you made it so awkward for her that I wanted to be polite and diffuse the awkwardness. And I did not agree that we'd break-up. Firstly, because that's not what she said and secondly, I don't think that will happen."

"You don't 'think'?"

"Sebastian! My God, what is it with you and this? I obviously can't see into the future and I know a lot of people do break-up when they go to uni."

"And you think we will?"

"No! I'm saying that in casual conversation, it's not unreasonable to concede that it is a legitimate possibility. I'm obviously not saying that I want it to happen or that I think it's going to. I just conversationally agreed with your brother's girlfriend when she pointed out that a relationship is easier when you both live closer to each other, rather than in totally different parts of the kingdom!"

"Her and Evan manage it."

"And hopefully we will, too. Sebastian, don't look at me like that!"

"Hopefully?"

"Yes, hopefully."

I could feel the muscles in my arms twitching. This was upsetting me. "Hopefully... For fuck sakes, Rory. Sometimes, it'd be nice if you just fucking agreed with me that we're great together."

"I always agree with that. And I love you."

"It doesn't feel like it tonight."

"Okay, now you're just being ridiculous."

"I hate when you do this."

He looked at me, irritably. "When I do what, Sebastian?"

"When you start riddling everything about college with qualifiers. Yes, alright, I fucking know that the laws of probability and reality and fucking British fucking geography show that a lot of people break-up in college and that it'd be far easier if we were both studying in Scotland, rather than one of us still being in England. But I don't want to hear about fucking probability, Rory. I want to hear that you love me and that even the fucking thought of us breaking-up, even as an abstract fucking theory, is so upsetting and so fucking awful that you don't even want to think about it. Because that's how I feel and I let you know that every single day. But when college is brought up, you start sounding like a politician. One piece of vague, non-committal bullshit after the other."

He was silent for a minute, gathering his thoughts, like he always did. 

"You're right," he sighed. "That is entirely fair and I am very sorry. In my defense, I am coping with the anxiety at the thought of not seeing you every day but trying to calm my hopes down. I am not qualifying anything because I want it to happen. I'm doing it because I just don't know what I would do if it did happen. The thought of not seeing you every day, like we do now, is just so upsetting that it's the thing I'm trying not to focus on. Whatever happens, we'll be apart and I don't like that. So I'm trying to be practical about the whole thing to prepare myself for it, but in the process, I've upset you and made you think I don't care, when I very much do. I already miss you and we haven't even left yet. I love you, Sebastian, and I'm sorry." 

I glanced over at him, quickly, before turning my eyes back to the road. I felt a bit emotional and smiled, silently, for a second. I briefly took one hand off the steering wheel and squeezed his thigh. 

"I love you," he said, softly.

"Love you, too."

*

A few days later, Rory and I were walking home after school. I was nursing a semi as I perved on his tight ass, but people would be in both of our houses that afternoon and there was nowhere nearby where we could disappear off to mess around, without a major risk of being caught. 

"I have a semi," I said, casually.

"How lovely."

"Can we do phone sex when we get home? I can jerk off to it."

"And who says romance fades after a few months?" he said, both sarcastically and affectionately.

"I had the dirtiest wank about you this morning in the shower," I said.

"You have to stop this, Sebastian, unless you want both of us to walk home with erections. Which, frankly, would be rather awkward, don't you think?"

"Do you want to go for a drive later?"

He shrugged. "That could be fun. But I have to finish the Religion homework beforehand -- if that's okay?"

"Of course it is."

A pause. 

"We're having sex in your car tonight, aren't we?"

I slapped his ass hard and laughed. "Fuck yeah, baby."

*

That weekend, the summer sun really came out for the first time. It was a baking hot day and Rory and I went down to a public park near where we lived to chill out. A few people from school were there and I bought Rory a huge bottle of water to keep him cool. 

I remember him in perfect detail. He was lying on his side, staring up, from behind his sunglasses. The Sun bathed down on his face and in his shorts and t-shirts, he looked relaxed and happy. Health practically glowed off him and he was already beginning to tan slightly. The light coating of dark hair on his legs and those lovely arms of his. The contented sigh and the soft, enigmatic smile. I remember all of it and how effortlessly contented he seemed on that day. I don't know why it stuck so much in my mind. Or why it still does. There were many other day like that ahead of us, but something in that day stayed in my mind in crystal-clear clarity.

"What?" he asked, lazily. "Are you thinking dirty things?"

"I mean, always a little," I said, lying down so my head was on his stomach, at a right angle. I remembered how he'd been the first time I'd touched him on the stomach, but now he just kept breathing normally. And trailed his hand along my forehead. "You seem so happy today, Rory."

"I am," he said. "I'm with you."



Rory and Sebastian Ch. 15



-- Everyone is over the age of 18 and in their final year of high school in England --



"Did you have sex with Michael Suzette?"

The question was flung at me as soon as I walked into Rory's bedroom, one sunny afternoon in April. He was staring at me, hands on his hips and he was shaking slightly, as if he'd been waiting for hours to ask me this. Well, there was no point in denying it, since a) it was true and b) he'd clearly already found out from somebody else. Still, I was blindsided for a moment and I mentally stumbled. An idiotic phrase fell out of my mouth, which only riled him further.

"Eh... how did you find out?"

His eyebrows shot up in livid disbelief. "Seriously?" he snapped. "That's your response?"

I held my hands out in a calming gesture. He was very attractive when he was this angry but, right now, that was definitely, definitely not the point to make.

"Okay, baby, that was a dumb thing to say. You just surprised me a little with the question. Yes, I did hook up with him. Months ago. Before he came-out and long, long before you and I got together. Long before. It was before I'd even started hooking-up with Josh Peterly..."

"Oh, well, hearing his name just makes this day so much better, doesn't it?"

Now I was beginning to get annoyed. He had a right to be upset, yes, but he didn't need to be so childish about it. 

"Oh, you're right, Rory. I mention Joshua Peterly all the time and I definitely haven't done enough to prove to you that I think he's garbage." 

His mouth hung open for a minute - like he'd gone to speak, before realizing he'd nothing to rebut with. 

"You should've told me," he said after a minute's pause.

"Yes, I should. But he hadn't come-out yet, Rory, and I didn't think it was fair. Or relevant."

"Not relevant? He's in our year at school. We see him every day. And I remember sitting with you, in here, in my room, on the day he did come-out and talking to you about it. Why didn't you say then?"

There was no way I was going to tell Rory that the reason I'd withheld the information was because I worried it'd exacerbate his insecurities again. Michael Suzette was extraordinarily good-looking. By general consensus, in fact, pretty much the most 'beautiful' man in our grade. I'd known then, just like I knew now, that Rory would react badly to the idea that I'd slept with him. 

"Because it was irrelevant by that point," I reasoned, lamely. "It meant nothing to me. The sex was shit and I find Michael pretty full of himself for someone who's shit in bed. I really did not want to re-live it, or talk about it. And, not to sound like a dick, but it happened before you and I got together, which means you're not automatically entitled to that information, Rory. No, I'm sorry, don't interrupt – you're not. Okay? Especially since you and I have never had that conversation about our exes. Have I ever asked you about Stefan? No. Have you ever offered me any information about him? No. Have I ever asked you, or have you ever asked me, in all seriousness, about who we hooked-up with before each other? No. No, we haven't. So I have absolutely no idea why you're flinging accusations at me the second I walk through the door because I didn't choose to share an insignificant part of my life that, up until today, you yourself have shown absolutely no interest in!"

I was pleased to see he looked embarrassed after that. But the moment of pleasure soon gave way to a feeling of discomfiture. I hated seeing him sad, so I crossed over and put my arms around him.

"I'm sorry if this has upset you," I whispered, "but it meant nothing. And I never think about it, or him."

He nuzzled into me and breathed; his anger evaporating into me. 

"Virginia told me," he said, answering the question I hadn't even asked yet. I felt annoyed. Of course she had; of course it was his Regina George-a-like BFF who'd told him. "She heard it from one of Michael's friends in her Italian class this morning. She thought I should... she thought I had a right to know."

Now was not the time to start a rant about Virginia, especially since we'd just made up. I kissed his neck and then kept myself there, in stasis, once I'd stopped. 

"I'm sorry," I repeated, quietly. "Don't be mad. It meant nothing. You didn't need to yell at me."

He nodded. "I'm sorry," he replied. "I shouldn't have. It just surprised me. I looked stupid when Virginia told me and I didn't already know."

"I know, love," I said. "But there isn't anyone but you who's ever really mattered to me."

He smiled into my chest and he said, coyly, "I wish my parents weren't in right now."

*

On Monday, I found Virginia sitting alone in the library during fourth period. It was rare to find her alone, without at least one of her acolytes faithfully orbiting her. Her Italian A-Level textbook was open in front of her and she looked only vaguely interested in it.

Even I, who was gay and actually quite disliked Virginia, had to concede that she was a strikingly pretty girl. She had long light brown hair, that she always kept perfectly styled; she had a trim figure, beautiful brown eyes, a bit like Rory's, and a spot-free, tanned complexion. She was a good-dresser and even in her school uniform, you could tell she knew how to wear clothes. She looked up as I approached and she sighed as I sat down; she knew what I was here to talk to her about.

"Hello, Sebastian," she said, in that clipped English upper-class drawl that was so, so, so like Rory's.

"Hello, Virginia. Guessing you know why I'm here?"

"The mysterious affair of Michael Suzette?" she joked. It was a catty joke; one that said I should feel ashamed, not her.

"No, actually. The mysterious affair of Rory Masterton," I rejoined. "I don't give a fuck if people know that I slept with Michael, but you had no right to go to Rory and tell him first. That should have come from me."

"You're right," she said. "It should have. But it didn't. You two have been dating for – how long, Sebastian? – six months? ..."

"Seven," I corrected.

She waved her hand in the air dismissively. "Right, seven. You've had seven months to tell him and you didn't. Once Michael Suzette came-out, you should have told him because you must have realized that, at some point, Michael was going to tell his friends and then it would only be a matter of time before the school's rumor mill made sure it got back to Rory."

"You should have at least given me the opportunity to tell him, once you knew that other people knew. You knew it would have sounded better coming from me."

"No, Sebastian, I know it would have been better for you. That's not the same thing."

She was annoying me and she wasn't backing down. 

"Seb," she continued, "I know that most people cave in when you come storming over and read them the riot act. I know that when you lay on your full, strong, determined, overprotective American boyfriend routine, people cower before you. But I'm not Joshua Peterly. And I don't mean to sound like a total bitch, but you need to step back for a moment and realize that I have absolutely no responsibility to you. I have loyalty to Rory, who has been my friend for years. I found out that his current boyfriend had slept with another member of our year. I also knew that the rumor was going around school. And I also knew, or assumed, that you hadn't told him yet. I'm sorry if the way Rory found out was personally inconvenient for you, Sebastian, but you really only have yourself to blame. You had seven months to tell him – and you didn't. So I did instead. And, if I had to, I'd do exactly the same thing all over again. Now, if you don't mind, I have to get on with this work and if you were to take a moment to think about what you're saying to me, you'd realize that you're being completely ridiculous in asking me to put your agenda above Rory's. Have a nice day."

I stared at her for a second; she held my gaze. She was smug, imperious and arrogant. But she was also absolutely right. I'd made a fool of myself coming over here. I nodded, got up and left the table. She went back to her homework, without giving me a second glance.

*

The weeks after Virginia's revelation about Michael Suzette actually passed quietly enough. I knew, or guessed, that at some point Virginia would have told Rory about our little run-in in the library, but if she did, he didn't mention it to me. Rory and I clicked along like we always had. We still had – incredible – sex whenever we could find the time and a safe location. (Often my car, particularly for blowjobs.) 

At the start of May, our school broke-up for study leave; a British thing when you get a few weeks off to study at home before your senior year exams, the A-Levels. The day before study leave starts is usually taken as the last day of school, so Rory and I meandered down to the ridge overlooking the playing fields – where, back in September, we'd first noticed each other properly. And all this had started. It was a warm day, like it had been then, but without a breeze.

"Do you ever what would have happened if you hadn't had that nose bleed that day?" I asked. 

"And if you hadn't hurt your ankle?"

"First time we joked about sex," I laughed. "With my fucked-up ankle."

He smiled and sighed, happily. "I don't ever really think about it, no," he admitted. "I can't really conceive of this year without you."

"Or next year," I added.

He looked at me and smiled. "I didn't mean not next year, just because I left it out. I was thinking back. Isn't that why we came down here?"

I took his hand. "Do you always have to have an answer for everything?"

"Yes," he said, with the faux arrogance I loved so much. "Isn't that why you love me?"

I stayed silent. And he looked over at me a minute later, then nudged me with his arm.

"Sorry," I said. "I got lost in the moment. I'm still so unbelievably obsessed with you, buddy. I know it's only been a year and every dumb shit says this at the end of high school but, honestly Rory, I really believe you're the one. You're the love of my life."

Anyone else's eyes would have filled with tears, but Rory was made of sterner stuff. It took a lot more to make him cry, particularly when he was sober, happy and in public. His eyes didn't tear up, but they did sparkle. In the way only his could. He leaned over and kissed me on the lips.

"You too," he said. "I love you Sebastian Carson. Even though you're so fucking annoying, sometimes."

I laughed and pulled him in for a proper kiss. "You too, Masterton."

*

Rory and I were both taking four subjects for our final exams, but only one subject together: History. His other three were Religion, French and English Literature. Mine were Physics, Mathematics and Latin. It meant that we didn't have the same exam timetable and Rory also ruled out studying together, since we inevitably ended up in bed – especially with a free house in the middle of the day. So, over the following three weeks, we actually saw very little of each other, particularly as Rory's desire to get in to Saint Andrew's university slowly took over his life. 

My final exam – a Physics paper – was three days before Rory's, which was a religious studies paper. Me and Rory's childhood best friend, Robbie, had both finished and both moseyed over to see Rory, who was wearing sweatpants and holed-up in his room, pouring over a book about Saint Thomas Aquinas. 

"He had an opinion on everything," he groaned, hardly looking at us. "Apparently, ten years before he died, the Virgin Mary appeared to him and told him he didn't need to write anymore."

"Lucky for you," I joked.

"And seven hundred years of Religion students," Rory muttered, crossing himself. "That was a very useful vision for all concerned."

I laughed. "Oh, you Catholics."

"Hey!" interjected Robbie good-naturedly. "We don't all believe the Mother of God appeared in the sky to ask some dude to stop writing."

"I'm telling you, if you'd read his stuff, you know she did it as an errand of mercy," replied Rory. "I am never going to remember all of this."

I stood behind him and massaged his shoulders, then leant over to kiss his forehead. "You'll be fine," I said, "and then, we can party."

"Is party your code for fucking?" joked Robbie.

"Yeah. Party in my boxers," I laughed.

"Fuck off, you two. Your happiness makes me ill. Are you going to Dominic's tonight?"

"Yeah," answered Robbie. "Quite a few of the guys from the team are going, so it should be really good fun. Although Daniel won't be going, because he's to do the Religion exam with you on Thursday."

"Poor bastard."

"I'll call you in the morning?" I asked, kissing him again.

"Please," he whispered, ruefully. "Have fun you two. Well, kind of. Not too much. I hate Religion so much right now."

As Robbie and I walked out, I picked up one of Rory's textbooks and tossed at him. "Hey, Rory? Dietrich Bonhoeffer thinks you're sexy!"

Robbie and I exited, laughing, with Rory flipping us off from his desk.

*

Dominic's party that night turned out to be probably one of the biggest ragers of the whole academic calendar. With the exception of people who'd chosen to study Religion or Media Studies, pretty much every subject had finished either that day or on the Friday before. It wasn't just our school that was there, but people from final year in Saint Thomas á Becket's, King Edward VI's, Our Lady of Mercy's, Tonbridge and the Weald Academy. Luckily, Dominic's house was pretty huge but with the amount of people, even it was absolutely packed. 

Without Rory there, I was subjected to a full barrage of abuse from my team-mates. Well, me and another guy on the team called Will, who'd also been in a long-term relationship - with his girlfriend, Julia. 'The old married men,' 'sell outs,' 'dull fuckers,' 'over the hill,' all of it was flung at us. Obviously, we took it in good part, but when the drinking games started, Will and I were targeted pretty savagely. By about twelve-thirty, I could honestly and truly say I'd never been that drunk in my entire life. Talking about it later, Robbie would swear blind that I'd had at least as much as a full bottle of vodka, coupled with seven or eight beers. 

Fearing that I was going to vomit, I staggered away during an interlude in the drinking games and weaved my way through the party guests, exchanging slurred inanities with people I didn't really know. I gazed down at my phone; there was no message from Rory and I knew he'd be working, so I didn't want to call him in case I woke him up. I considered it though, swaying on my feet. But then I figured that if he hadn't texted me, he didn't want to hear from me tonight, and I stumbled on up the stairs to a free bathroom. 

I took a giant piss with the door open, but nobody seemed to be around. In my state, I probably wouldn't have cared if the bathroom had been full of people, to be honest. When I was done, I splashed my face with water and struggled a bit. My head was spinning and my legs felt weird. I turned round and a guy was standing in the doorway. I didn't recognize him. Or at least, I was pretty sure I didn't.

"Hey. Are you done in here?" he asked. 

"Eh... yeah, yeah, I am, buddy. Work away." 

"I'm Ross," he said, proffering his hand. 

I took it and shook. As I shook, I can remember actually wondering if the movement would cause me to topple over. This was not good.

"Seb," I answered. 

"Seb Carson?" the guy asked, excitedly.

"Eh, yeah. Sor.... sorry, do I, uh, know you?"

"No," he laughed. "No, sorry, you don't. I go to Edward VI's. You go to Saint Edmund's, right, with Dominic?"

I nodded. My head felt heavy and I felt horny. Like I'd like to be buried in Rory's crotch right now. The bathroom light was too bright for me. "Right," was all I could really manage.

"You're the gay one?"

"There's more than one."

"Sorry, right, yeah. It's just you were one of the first guys to come out around here. You know, in our year."

"I thought you didn't go to my school."

"I didn't," he explained, patiently. "But I'm in your year. I'm in upper sixth. I just finished today."

"That's awesome, dude."

"Thanks! How did your exams go?"

I shrugged, but still struggled to be polite. "Okay, I guess. Yeah, Physics was a motherfucker. But, yeah, good. I think. I don't, uh, I don't want to be cocky. Hey – how were yours?"

"Good," he replied, enthusiastically. In my head, this guy in front of me was completely sober, but I assume now he was probably pretty drunk, as well. I just couldn't tell at the time. "So, are you dating anyone right now?"

I nodded. "Yeah, seven months. His name's Rory."

"Is he here with you?"

"No," I shook my head. God, it felt heavy. "He does Re... he's not done yet."

"Oh, that's a shame. I just broke up with my boyfriend," Ross explained.

I put my hand on his shoulder, in the kind of instant solidarity that only the drunk can appreciate. "I'm sorry to hear that, bro! You're gay, too?"

"Yes. Yes, I am."

"That's awesome," I said, passionately. "I really fucking love being gay."

"Well, I don't. Not right now, anyway."

"What did the asshole do to you?"

"He just ... we just went on a break because he's so messed up and he won't introduce me to any of his friends or family."

"That is messed up," I commiserated. "So fucking messed up. But hey, listen, Ross, don't let it, don't let that, is what I'm saying, don't let that or it get you down. Y'know? You'll find someone. Seriously. Being gay, it's just so fucking awesome, because men are, right? They're just great."

And that's when he kissed me. He had his lips pressed to mine and his tongue parting through my lips in less than a nanosecond. I wish I could say I resisted; I wish I could tell you that I pushed him off. Even that I hit him. But my memory is so poor that I can't even be sure how much – or if – I resisted Ross's kiss. I know, though, that I didn't hit him and that I didn't push him off. All I can distinctly remember is the room swirling around me, my legs shaking and the smell of Ross being somehow incredible. Exhilarating, even. Part of me wonders if the reason why I grabbed onto him and returned his kiss was in some fucked up way balance-related; that my drunken logic was so shocked by what he'd done that I wobbled and figured that at least by grabbing on to him, I wouldn't fall. I don't know. I honestly just don't know. I can't remember. All I do know, for certain, is that I returned his kiss for a minute – maybe less, maybe a little longer. I can't remember. But eventually, from somewhere, too late but loud, that tiny, weird, sober part of your brain began to scream. It was like my whole mind had gone into shock at what I had done. For one split second, I was sober again and I pushed Ross off me. 

"I have a boyfriend."

"He's not here."

"Fuck you. Look, I'm not ... I love him."

"It's the end of year," Ross reasoned. "We're alone. It was just a bit of fun. Calm down, dude."

"No, listen, I'm not... I'm sorry. I shouldn't be here. Please – I love him. I didn't. I'm sorry. I shouldn't be here."

I moved quickly out of the bathroom and down the stairs. No-one had seen us. No-one would need to know. But ticking over and over in my head was a dull, vicious, hysterical voice, asking, on repeat, "What have you done?"

*

-- This part of the story is told from the point of view of Virginia Reilly -- 

The day after Claudia's end of year party, I was out having brunch with my sister, Rachel, when she got up to go to the bathroom and I was approached from the other side of the restaurant by an old pony club friend of mine called Diane, who went to King Edward VI's – a school quite near to ours.

"Virginia!"

"Diane, hi!" I gasped. Obviously, I had to rise to hug her, which was irritating because I actually found her slightly annoying. "How are you?"




Rory and Sebastian Ch. 15



"Great," she said. And, I had to admit, she looked great. We chatted for thirty seconds, going through the obligatory 'how did your exams go' chat, before she cleared her throat and said, "Listen, this is really awkward."

I can sense gossip in the same way a jaguar can sense a limping gazelle. "Oh my god, tell me," I said, taking her arm in a gesture of feminine solidarity.

"You're really good friends with Rory Masterton, yes?"

Was she an idiot? "Eh, yes, Diane – for, like, the last ten years."

"Is he dating a guy called Sebastian Carson?"

This didn't sound good. "Yes," I answered, as my throat went dry. 

"Really tall? Really good looking? On your school's rugby team?"

"Yes."

"American."

"Yes."

"Friends with Dominic Kirchner?"

"Yes."

"Fuck. Okay, Virginia, Ross Lewis is not one of my good friends, so I don't agree with what happened, I just thought you should know."

"Who's Ross Lewis?" I felt slightly nauseous. As much as I didn't like him, if Sebastian had actually cheated on Rory, Rory would be completely destroyed.

"He's this really, really handsome gay guy in my year at King Edward's..."

"Right."

".... until last week, he was kind of on-again/off-again with Balfour Redmond, who's in our year and just basically a total mess of a human being. Anyway, they went on yet another one of their breaks right before the exams finished, and when they 'break-up,' Ross apparently tries to get Balfour back by making him jealous. And it works, every time. That's what Jessica told me..."

I wanted to strangle her. Why was she taking so long? But if I rushed her, she mightn't tell me everything she knew. I might panic the dumb bitch.

"On Monday night, Ross got invited to Dominic Kirchner's house party and he apparently ended-up making out with Sebastian Carson in one of the upstairs' bathrooms."

I felt like I was about to faint, on Rory's behalf, but I held my shit together and pressed on, to make sure I got all the information I needed.

"Diane, are you absolutely sure?"

"Yes."

"Did anybody see them?"

"No, but Ross came down and told his best friend, Jessica, who I just told you about, and she said Sebastian was acting really weird and emotional after he went upstairs. Look, Diane, Ross Lewis is a bit of a slut, but he's not a liar. And obviously, he's told people about it because he wants Balfour to know..."

"Okay," I said, leadenly. 

"I just thought you should know. I know we're not that close, but if I was Rory, I'd rather hear it from you than on the grapevine."

I looked at Diane properly for the first time; she actually was just trying to do the right thing. Annoyingly, but still. "Thanks, Diane. I really, really do appreciate it."

I sat back down at my table and the stomach churning at the thought of having to tell Rory hurt more than my hangover. I picked up my phone and texted Robbie Fitzpatrick. 

"Can you meet me in an hour at my house? It's important."

He wrote back five minutes later. "Sure. Everything ok?"

"No," was all I could respond.

*

Ninety minutes later, Robbie stood on my garden walkway, staring at me in mute, disbelieving horror.

"No," he said. "He wouldn't do that."

"Robbie – it's all over the King Edward's group."

"Virginia, people can make shit up. We don't know this Ross guy and you said yourself that you're not really that close to the girl who told you. We've known Seb for years. He's been my friend for years. Honestly, he wouldn't do this. He worships the ground Rory walks on. You know that!"

I had to concede that he had a point. Talking it over with Robbie, I was starting to feel less certain that Diane had been telling the truth. Or that she'd been told the truth by Ross, to be more precise.

"He lied about Michael Suzette," I said. "He's kept things from him before."

"That was different. Michael happened long before him and Rory. This is something completely fucked-up!"

Robbie was clearly distressed and he was becoming physically agitated. But then he was as close as family to Rory and very, very fond of Sebastian. It was hard to imagine anyone who'd be more torn about this. Maybe that's why I'd contacted him. I knew he'd give good advice and honest advice; he wouldn't give advice based solely on wanting to generate scandal. Plus, he knew Sebastian. Far better than I did. Despite my insatiable love of gossip, even I drew the line at putting it in front of my best friend.

"But Robbie, what if it is true? What if Sebastian was so drunk he fucked up? You have to admit that it's possible!" Robbie glanced at me; pained and angry, but unable to argue back. "I know how these things work. There is no way to hermetically seal this rumour. It's frankly a miracle that Rory hasn't heard about it already. The only reason he hasn't is probably because he was buried with revision for the exams and the only party he's been to in about two months was Claudia's last night."

"Virginia – think about what this is going to do to him. He loves Seb. He loves him so much and Seb's been so good for him. If Rory finds out the love of his life cheated on him with some hot guy from another school, he'll never eat again. You know that!"

"Robbie, if there was a way to keep this from him, I would. But there isn't. This is not my fault -"

"I know it isn't!"

"Then stop shouting at me!"

Robbie took a breath.

"Robbie, we have to do something. We have to tell him."

"What if it's not true?" 

I paused. He was right. There was a definite chance that it wasn't true. "Then that's up to Rory and Sebastian to fix. Our job, as Rory's friends, is to tell him."

"No," ruled Robbie. He sounded firmer than I'd expected. "We should go to Seb."

"He'll just lie."

"No, he won't," Robbie declared. "He wouldn't lie. I'll know. We should go and give him the opportunity to tell Rory. Whether it's true or not, it should come from Seb. Not from us. Please, Virginia: I really think we should give him the chance. Please."

I looked away. It was such a beautiful day today – it seemed hideous to think that my best friend's life could be falling apart with the Sun shining. After a minute, I nodded. Robbie's plan made sense and, on a weirdly selfish note, it put off the awful moment of having to tell Rory for just a little bit longer. 

*

The moment we walked into Sebastian's living room, I knew he'd done it. It was so strange to see that big, six foot something frat star in this state. He looked ill. Haunted, actually. He was usually so cocksure and confident in his movements normally, but today, he was moving nervously and uncomfortably on the balls of his feet, as Robbie and I exchanged the usual small talk with his mother in the hallway. 

As we walked into the living room, Robbie kept staring at Seb – as if trying to process what he was seeing. There was a sort of angry entreaty in his eyes, that was begging Seb to deny it all. I kept my eyes averted from him and kept my face cold. The whole day had the feeling of things falling apart. I felt like the air around us was about to pull apart and shatter. The lyrics from an old song I couldn't quite remember floated into my head: 'all I know is that the end's beginning.' I swallowed, sat down and crossed my legs. There was no point in getting emotional about it. At least, not in front of Sebastian Carson. Between me, him and Robbie, someone had to keep their cool. 

"Do you know why we're here, dude?" asked Robbie.

Sebastian nodded and looked at us, shaking his head. He had no words. If it was possible to see a soul hurt in somebody's eyes, then that's what Seb Carson looked like that afternoon. I found myself feeling sorry for him. I wasn't angry. I felt so sorry for him. Even though I knew that there was nothing my pity could do for him. One way or the other, Rory would have to find out. That's all there was to it. No winners, no losers, just social fact. It was sad, but inescapable. Like Death, I suppose. Or aging. 

"Fuck, Seb! How could you?" 

Sebastian just kept shaking his head. "I don't know, Robbie. I don't... know. He... I was so drunk. You know how drunk I was. I used the bathroom. He came in. We were talking about exams and his ex-boyfriend. He launched himself at me. We started kissing. I pushed him off, but not quickly enough. Then I left. I kept hoping he wouldn't tell people. I kept hoping people wouldn't find out."

"So you're not going to tell Rory?" Robbie snapped, incredulously. I kept my eyes on Seb to analyse his next move.

"I can't," he said, hoarsely. "Robbie, how could I do that? How could I tell him? He'll ... it'd kill him. He'd think it was because of him. He'd think he was ugly. It'd... ruin... everything. I can't. I'm dying here, Robbie. I hate myself, but I'm going to have to carry the burden. I'm not trying to duck out of this, but I have to feel shit about myself forever and never confess anything to him. It's what I have to do. You know he couldn't handle it."

"Not telling him isn't an option, Seb," I said, quietly. 

"Why?"

"Because Ross Lewis..."

"Who?"

"That's the guy's name," I explained. And I heard Robbie exhale sorrowfully next to me, as the realisation smacked us both in the face that Sebastian was about to break his own heart – and the heart of the guy he, and we, loved – over someone whose surname he didn't even know. "His name is Ross Lewis. He had just broken up with his ex-boyfriend and apparently they do it a lot. Break up, then make up. He told him about you, because he wanted to make him jealous – hooking up with the hot gay rugby player from another school. You can see why he did it, I suppose. The news is all over their year at King Edward's. Everyone knows. I know school's over, but it's only a matter of time before Rory finds out and if he firmly sticks to the story that you didn't do it, which he will if you don't own-up, then he's going to look like a complete idiot."

Sebastian buried his face in his hands and shuddered. I had never seen him like this. It was like watching a colossus crumble in front of you. But, like me, he could see that the situation was now one of inevitable social logic. Ross had blabbed; Rory would find out. The only question now was from whom. I'd spent a lifetime gossiping; I knew how the ropes worked. Sebastian was a very clever guy; he knew, too. 

"Last month you told me that I should have come to you first, rather than go to Rory about Michael Suzette. This is much more serious and Robbie agreed you had the right to know first. Honestly, if I thought there was a way for your plan to work, I think I might help you do it. I believe you love him, even though I find you monumentally irritating, and I believe this is killing you. I wish this hadn't happened and I wish he didn't have to know."

"But he does," finished Sebastian. "Thank you. I'm going to go see him tonight."

He stood up. The talk was over. He looked like someone who'd just been told they were to face a firing squad, rather than prison. I remember Rory saying once that he didn't know which would be worse: death or life imprisonment. 

"Aren't you sorry?" asked Robbie, sounding like a confused child.

"Yes," Sebastian said, not looking at him. "But the first person I'll say that to his him, Robbie. Not to you. Or anyone else. If you don't want to be friends with me after this, I understand, dude."

They shook hands. I walked out with looking back. Now all Robbie and I could do was play the waiting game. We had to wait until Rory called us and until he needed us. Until then, we just had to sit and wait.I got into Robbie's car's passenger seat. The doors shut. And I burst into tears. I hadn't done that in years.

"Poor Rory," I whispered.

*

--This part of the story is told from Sebastian's point of view--

Looking back on it, I shouldn't have gone over to Rory's that afternoon. Throughout the whole conversation with Robbie and Virginia, it had been clear that at least one of us – Virginia – had held their shit together. She'd remained calm and logical, where Robbie and I just hadn't. Couldn't. What I had done was terrible – fucking terrible. But, it was seven seconds out of a relationship that had lasted through thick and thin over eight months. For my sake, and Rory's, I should have gone in and told him the news in a stronger mood. I should have been like my usual self; I should have held myself together. If I had been in a mood like that, then I could have stood a chance of breaking the news to him in a less melodramatic fashion. There's no doubt that the outcome would have been awful, no matter what. How could it not be? But at the very least I could have assured him, sincerely, that I loved him more than anyone else I could conceive of.

But the problem was that I could only have done that had I been myself. And in those first few weeks after Dominic's party, I was anything but myself. I'm sure it sounds stupid to you, but in a way what happened with Ross actually shattered me more badly than it did Rory. If you had told me one hour before it happened that I would ever have cheated on Rory Masterton, I'd have laughed in your face. Or, you know, punched you in it. So, I went in to Rory's room almost as traumatized as he would be. I still didn't even really know what had happened at Dominic's, much less how to explain it to anybody else. I was, honestly, shell-shocked. I disgusted myself and so how, in the name of God, could I have walked into that room and begged Rory to still love me? 

I walked into his room and he was chatting away, in a black fitted cashmere sweater and gray sweatpants, when I just blurted out the words, "I kissed somebody else at Dominic's."

I looked at the ground and then at him, in the awful, cavernous silence that filled the room. It was a silence so intense, I swear, it was somehow loud. His face was only slowly changing from the happy, chatty one he'd worn seconds before I'd pulled the rug from under him.

"Is this a joke?" he finally asked.

I shook my head and I felt tears spill out the side of my eyes. I hadn't wanted to cry. But I couldn't help it. I loved him so much and all I wanted to do was to shield him from pain, but now I was the one who'd inflicted the worst kind on him. 

"No," I whispered, through the tears. "No. It's not. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"You wouldn't do that," Rory declared, in a tone that was still factual, even commanding. Like we were debating a point of history or science. As if I'd stated something that was quite simply incorrect and he was now becoming impatient with me. "You wouldn't. You'd never do that."

"I did," I said and I could hear the sob creeping into my voice. This was not me. I was 6'4 and played rugby. I must have looked fucking ridiculous. And pathetic. Why should I be the one crying? I deserved to be punched. "I did. I was so drunk. Robbie told you how drunk I was."

Why did I say that? It sounded like an excuse. 

His voice cracked. An air bubble, or some other by-product of erupting hysteria, caught in his throat. He was starting to process it. He was starting to actually compute what I'd done to us.

"Who was it?"

"This guy from King Edward's. His name's Ross."

"Ross what?"

"I think Lewis. I'm not sure. We were upstairs, in the bathroom."

"Why did you go into the bathroom with him?!"

"I didn't," I wept. "I went to pee and he came in as I was leaving and asked me how I knew Dominic. We were just talking ..."

"About?!"

"About, I dunno, bullshit. Nothing special. The exams. How he'd just broken up with his boyfriend. And then he kissed me. He launched himself at me. I swear, Rory. I swear to God."

"You're not even sure you believe in God!" Rory shot back, using my lack of faith against me for the first time. "Did you push him off?"

"Not at first," I said. And I heard him make a sound half-way between a gasp and a groan. "But then I realized what was happening. I felt sober again, for a second, and I did – I swear! – I did push him off. And I left. And obviously I haven't been in contact with him since. It was seven seconds, Rory. If that, even. I'm so sorry! Baby, I'm so sorry. Please. Please don't hate me. Please don't."

I walked over to him and he slapped me, hard, across the face. It may have been a slightly effeminate gesture, but there was nothing feminine about Rory's strength. It was hard, brutal, masculine. I nearly fell over, but instead of retaliating I just kept crying.

"How could you have done this?" he sobbed. "Sebastian, why? Why?"

As quickly as it had appeared, his anger vanished and he began hysterically crying. He began stroking my cheek that he'd struck and trying to cuddle in towards me. "Is it because I didn't go to Dominic's? Or because I spent so much time working for the exams? I'm sorry, Sebastian. I didn't mean to ignore you. I didn't mean to! I can be better. I won't do it again. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I wasn't good enough to you, but I won't do it again. I didn't tell you that I believed we could stay together enough in university enough. No matter which ones we go to! I can lose more weight for you. I can get better looking. I can be better for you. I won't nag you anymore. Or tease you. I won't... I won't annoy you. I'll be better at sex. I will. I promise, Sebastian. Please, please."

In my whole life, I have never felt pain quite like hearing him, and seeing him, say those words. Hysterical tears of panic were pouring down his face. He was practically pawing at me. All of his dignity, all of his grace, all of his self-belief and poise, had been temporarily swept away. Every fear and neuroses that he had were coursing through him openly. I felt like a knife was twisting into me because I'd made him feel this way. But all I could do was keep shaking my head and kissing him and crying. 

I felt his tears on my neck. "Oh, Sebastian," he wept. "Why can't we make it be yesterday again?"

*

For four days, Rory and I stayed in a weird kind of personal limbo. A decision would have to be reached and only Rory, really, could make it. I know that he spent a lot of his time going for walks with Virginia and I found later that she defended me, in saying that she believed I had slipped-up and that I was truly sorry, but condemned me by stating that she didn't believe Rory could cope mentally with a long-distance relationship with me in university, after what had happened. In fact, she vigorously insisted that doing so would push him over the edge.

Looking back on it, I think she may have been right. It may 'just' have been one kiss, but Rory couldn't have coped with the image of it in his head.

I spent those four days in a twisted ball of agony. On the fourth night, Rory came over to stay at my house and we lay, with me as big spoon, awake but unspeaking, for hours. Eventually, I fell off into sleep, savouring the smell of him and the softness of his skin. It had once been so familiar to me, but now it seemed like it had moved beyond me. He was so close, but the distance between us was great. Insuperable. I whispered, "I love you," as I fell off to sleep. I don't think he responded and when I woke in the morning, he was gone. With a letter left on my desk: "Sebastian," written in his beautiful black-ink handwriting.

'My dearest, darling, wonderful Sebastian,

You and I cannot be together. Not right now, anyway – maybe never again. I don't know. I cannot go to university with this hanging over me. I am not strong enough to deal with it and, for that, I truly, deeply, sincerely beg your forgiveness. Please forgive me, Sebastian? 

I know you'll be heartbroken by what's happened and I am too. If I was to stay, I'd only project that onto you and that isn't fair. We need time to deal with it on our own. 

Baby, I can't begin to tell you how sad I am for you. I know how much this has devastated you. Just as much as me. I know you've let yourself down and violated every moral standard you had for yourself. For us. I know that! And I'm so sorry for you. You're a good man, who did one stupid thing. I love you madly – obsessively – but it's not enough and if we stayed together, we'd end up being permanently obsessed with this. For our own sake, it's better just to part company right now. I love you.




Rory and Sebastian Ch. 15



I really do, Sebastian. You were my first everything that mattered. You made me see myself in a way that was worthy of being loved. You made me happy, you made me laugh, you made me giddily excited to wake up in the morning. I will savour and cherish every memory and every moment we had together – even the last, because the pain proved how much we love each other. 

I love you to the point that you will always be part of my soul and I am so sorry I wasn't strong enough to work through this.

Please, don't contact me just now. Whenever I'm sad, I'll just imagine your arms around me. Even the memory will be enough, for the time being.

I'm so sorry.

I love you.

Rory.'

Two months later, I went off to university in London and Rory and I did not see each other again for nearly eighteen months.



Rory and Sebastian Ch. 16



-- Thank you so much to everyone for the incredible feedback for the rest of the 'Rory and Sebastian' series. It's been really humbling. A couple of things I thought I should explain about the series, before it goes ahead to the next chapter - just in case there are any misunderstandings! As some of you may have guessed from comments made by the characters earlier in the series, chapter 15 was not the end of their time together. But, Rory is out of the picture for a bit and Sebastian, as a normal teenage guy heading off to college, is going to have a few experiences without him. Because that's the way real life goes. This chapter is much more sex-based than some of the others, but I hope it makes a temporary nice change. A couple of commentators also made a few remarks about how much Sebastian drinks. It's a fair point, and I totally get it, but as an American raised in the UK/Europe, I can say to you that it's a cultural difference. Rugby culture and the UK's college culture is much more heavy-drinking-friendly than the US's; it's a generalization, but Americans tend to drink less, but more regularly, and the British (and especially the Irish) less frequently but they have much bigger tolerance for large amounts of it. That could be a reductive generalization, obviously, but it's the cultural perception, anyway, and so, no, Sebastian doesn't have a drinking problem. It's just the culture he's in. In any case, thank you so much for all your feedback and I hope you enjoy this installment! --

I made it to University College, London, two and a half months after Rory and I broke up. We had some contact with each other in those months, but it was mostly awkward and fleeting. As time passed and the freshness of the shock receded, it was difficult not to be annoyed at both Rory and myself for what had happened. There were times when I was silently furious at Rory because he had been prepared to throw our relationship away, with no question of negotiation, over what had been one mistake. And, by many other couples' standards, not even a particularly big mistake. Had everything that had come before counted for nothing? Did one kiss, launched on me by someone I barely knew, really count for more than everything that we had meant to each other before that? 

On the other hand, there were also times -- usually when it was daylight and I was working out, running or feeling more upbeat -- where I could begin to understand Rory's rationale. I could see that by firmly putting the distance between us because of what staying together would do to his neuroses, he was, at last and at least, taking some kind of possession over them. He was managing his life to make sure those neuroses didn't spiral out control; he was controlling them, so that they did not control him. That was what I had always wanted for him; wasn't it? It was just that, in the fantasy, I was with him when he reached that stage. 

A couple of talks with my big brother, Evan, who had split up with his high school girlfriend, Sarah, and who were now back together, even gave me hope that this was the kind of thing that would work in the long run. Perhaps Rory and I needed this time apart? It was at times like this that I wished I was religious, like Rory was, so that I could believe everything was part of a wider plan -- that I could believe there even was a plan.

Anyway, at the end of September, I arrived in London and launched myself into the messy socializing orgy of freshers' week -- a 'get to know one another' carnival of drinks' promotions, mixers, club nights and fancy dress parties. It's ridiculous, garish and exhausting; it's also amazing fun. I was in my element and, in the rush of new acquaintances and new location, the dull empty ache that I had learned to live with -- the absence of Rory -- receded from my consciousness into my unconsciousness. Most of the time, at least. It probably isn't be true to say that I no longer missed him; I was simply no longer aware of it - constantly. It came back, though, every now and then.

On the fourth night of freshers' week, I had sex for the first time since Rory. He was a cute guy called Patrick, who I never hooked up with again. He was taking biophysics, but he seemed too good looking for a scientist. He was thin and pretty-handsome, with soft blond hair and a bright smile. We started hooking up in the middle of the club and he took me back to his room. I remember lying, flat on my back, naked, with Patrick riding me for all he was worth. He wasn't a virgin and he had given good head in our foreplay. But even as I held my hands around his waist and enjoyed the feeling of his warm, lubed-up hole expertly sliding up and down on my sheathed rod, I couldn't help but find the situation slightly ridiculous. 

Patrick had his back arched and from time to time, he'd put his hands behind his head or run them over his own chest, and coo. Or purr. Like a porn star. It was like he had this manufactured idea of what sexy was; it wasn't natural. It was a bit forced. Still, I finished and after a few moments, I got up and got dressed. I pulled on the ridiculous bright yellow t-shirt I'd been wearing for whatever party-theme it was that night and said a friendly goodbye. I'm usually pretty good at not feeling too awkward in those kind of situations. Hey, it happened; get over it. Even if Patrick did seem a bit awkward once he spunked over my chest and stopped his writhing and moaning. I pulled on my shoes, tossed the used rubber and the tissue I'd used to wipe Patrick's jizz off me into his trash can and made my way back to my halls. The sun was coming up over London as I got in. I removed my t-shirt and collapsed, face down, on my sheets and tried to sleep in preparation for the next night's round of partying.

*

After Patrick I did not hook up with anyone again for three more weeks. I settled in to my course (history with international relations) and made friends. I joined the rugby team and began practicing again, right away. College necessitated another round of 'comings out,' if you want to call them that. It always threw me by how surprised people got when I told them I was gay or how often they came out with bullshit or dumb-ass things like 'Oh, I would never have known. You don't act gay, at all,' to which I would reply, 'Well, wait until you see me having sex. I'm pretty gay then.' Or, 'Oh, that's such a shame!' or something equally retarded. Sorry, I know I shouldn't use that word. But, seriously, people -- wise the fuck up.

One day, I was in my bedroom talking to a girl on my floor that I'd made friends with called Helen. She was Irish and very pretty, with light brown hair and blue eyes. She was complaining about a guy she'd hooked up with who wasn't calling her back and our first paper of the semester, which she was struggling with.

"Who's that?" she asked, pointing at a picture pinned on my noticeboard.

I glanced up from my chair. There were some photos of my family on there, too, and my high school rugby squad. But she was pointing at a photograph of me and Rory. It had been taken in December, at Daniel's new year's eve party. I had my arms around his waist and he was smiling. I didn't look too great, but he looked amazing. His big brown eyes were grinning out at me, in his navy cashmere sweater and beige chinos. I remembered how he smelt that night. At quick thud of anguish at the memory; quickly suppressed.

"That's my ex-boyfriend," I answered. I didn't like the way that sounded. "That's Rory."

"He's cute," she said. "Good for you, Seb!"

"Oh, you know me. Always the charmer!"

"How long were you two going together for?"

"Just over eight months," I said. 

"Why'd you break up?" she asked. "Uni?"

For a second, I contemplated telling her the truth, but I couldn't quite bring myself to do it. I couldn't bear to have her think of me as 'that' guy and I also didn't want her to think Rory had done anything to push me into cheating. 

"Kind of, yeah, but the whole thing was my fault. He's wonderful."

"He's gorgeous."

"I know. He doesn't, but I do."

"Do you think he'll come to visit?"

"I dunno," I said, knowing he wouldn't. "I hope so."

"Do you still love him?"

I laughed at her nosiness.

"Hey, don't judge me," Helen retorted. "Irish girls are raised by Irish mothers and they teach us that prying is a part of life."

I laughed. "You'd've liked Rory. He's awesome."

"I hope I'll get to meet him some day," she said, "although I can't imagine you with a boyfriend!"

"I hope you get to meet him someday soon," I replied and shifted a little to hide how much that boyfriend comment had upset me.

*

A lot of people might have freaked out after fucking Patrick, but I've never gotten too hung up on sex. Maybe it's the rugby guy mentality, who knows? Whatever it is, sex has never really bothered me too much. The only reason it meant so much with Rory was because I was in love with him. I was 19 years old; I was good looking; I was in college and I was healthy. As much as I would have preferred Rory in my bed, he wasn't and I didn't intend to live like a monk because of it.

My next sexual partner was actually someone who could roughly be termed my fuck buddy. A role that Joshua Peterly had once disingenuously offered to fill. His name was Will and he was the only other openly gay player on the rugby team. Obviously, we were therefore thrown into each other's path at every rugby social by every friendly and well-meaning member of the squad. After one successful game and partying after, one thing led to another and Will and I ended up in my bedroom. Luckily, in British colleges, it's rare to have a roommate.

Will was a tall guy -- maybe 6'4 or 6'5. He had shaggy black hair, a ripped physique and really attractive blue eyes. He also had some stubble, which I actually quite liked. He was really, really good looking and he was started making out against my doorway, I could feel through his jeans that he had a pretty sizable tool in between his legs, too. 

"Do you top or bottom, Seb?" he asked, as I turned the lock.

"Either," I said, as he pressed up behind me.

"I'd like to fuck you," he said, with sledgehammer honesty. I liked that in him.

"Fuck it. Let's go for it then," I smiled.

We fell onto each other as soon as we were in, tearing off each other's close. I could taste the whiskey on his tongue and I actually quite liked it. He hurled me top across the room, as I fell back on the bed. Truth be told, I'd probably have preferred to top, given how badly the time bottoming with Rory had been, but I could sense Will would be much more comfortable on top, so I went with it. 

As he got topless himself and began unbuttoning his jeans, I took in his incredibly toned upper body. Fuck me, he was handsome. I pulled him down on top of me and our tongues met. It felt incredible. Raw, masculine, urgent, primal and demanding. I kicked off my shoes and he did the same, standing up to get completely naked. The moment we were both stripped of every item of clothing, apart from a few man bracelets he was wearing, he was on top of me again, kissing his way down across my torso, over my stomach and on to my cock.

I arched my back in appreciation at how efficiently he was sucking my rod. I trailed my hand through his hair and shuddered slightly as some of his spit fell onto my balls. I hoisted my legs and ass up and his tongue dove into my asshole. He was far better at rimming than he was at giving head. He really went to town on it, driving his tongue up there and make me moan with desire. Will really loved eating ass.

"Fuck, yes, Will. Fuck, dude. That's it. Fuck, that feels good."

After a few moments, I reached over to my bedside drawer and pulled out a bottle of lube. I tossed it to him and he pulled his head out from between my legs and smiled. I rummaged around in the drawer for a rubber.

"Can't I just fuck you bareback?" he asked, dribbling lube on his fingers and sliding them into my now-looser hole.

"Nah, dude, sorry," I said. "Sheath up. It's nothing personal."

"Fair enough," he smiled, with a shrug. He opened the condom I passed him and rolled it onto his cock. 

"I should have got extra large," I joked. "You're fucking huge, bro."

He laughed and began pouring lube on the condom. "You appreciate that?"

"As long as you know what to do with it," I teased. I really hoped he did, as I felt his head press against the opening to my hole. "Alright. Fucking give it to me." (No matter what the context, it is against everything I believe in to appear afraid of pain in front of a fellow rugby player.)

Will slid in and, as uncomfortable as it was to start with, I soon found myself relaxing and enjoying it. He really did know what to do with it. I wrapped my legs around his waist as he began pistoning in and out of me; he hit my prostrate and I yelped with desire. He leaned down over me and kissed me, hungrily. I squeezed my asshole and he grinned in our kiss.

"Dirty fucker," he laughed, slamming into me with renewed vigor. 

After a few moments, he pulled out and I turned over on my hands and knees. Will re-entered me and held on to my hips as he fucked me hard. My room already stank of man sweat and sex. He reached his hand up over my face and I sucked three of his fingers, greedily slobbering over them in undisguised lust. He took a breather and removed his hand from my face. He re-positioned himself so his legs were now on either side of me and he was practically on top of me. His cock was hitting new parts of me and I enjoyed it. 

Realizing, belatedly, that he was being selfish, Will went back to the normal doggy position and reached under to start jacking me off. I was so turned on that I didn't last long and I spunked an enormous amount into his hand and my sheets. A moment or two later, Will sped up, pulled out, yanked the condom off and jerked off onto my back. A silence, broken only by our panting to get our breath back, settled over the room.

"Cheers for that, Seb," Will said, slapping my ass as he got up off the bed.

I got up and turned on my light. I wandered into my bathroom to wipe Will's spooj off my back. When I came back he was standing in his pink and black y-fronts, looking very sexy and coated in a fine sheen of sweat. He pulled on his jeans and looked around for his shirt. He was still standing, belt and fly open, when he turned to me.

"Uh... listen, dude, I hope that what just happened... Well, uhm... Seb, I'm not really looking for anything regular or romantic, right now, if that's alright with you? I don't want to seem like a dick. I just didn't want to lead you on." 

"No," I said. "Honestly, Will, that suits me much better, too."

He smiled with relief. "Oh, good. Just you seem like a good guy and we're on the same team. Plus, you know, you're very hot."

I liked Will. "Thanks, bro; you too. Look, maybe we fuck every now and then?" I suggested. "No strings?"

"Honestly no strings?"

"Will, dude, you know me. I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."

Will nodded and grinned. "Fucking awesome, mate. I like that you're still standing here buck naked, by the way. Classy."

"You're going to be seeing plenty more of it," I replied, winking.

He smiled and picked up his t-shirt. I lay back on my bed, above the covers, with my hands behind my head, naked. When he was dressed, he walked over and we clasped hands as a bro farewell.

"See you at practice," he said. 

I nodded and held eye contact with him. If we weren't worried about making this too serious, was there really any need for him to go? He didn't need to worry about "leading me on," or whatever. I could feel myself firming up again and he returned my stare.

"Aw, fuck it, then," he whispered, dirtily.

Will leaned down and kissed me. A few seconds later, he slid back into my bed and my hands traced up under his t-shirt.



Rory and Sebastian Ch. 17



-- This first part of the story is told from Rory's point of view. (And the next installment alluded to by Sebastian will be posted within two weeks.) --

I wretched over the toilet and another torrent of sick splattered into the bowl. I had a stomach bug and forty-eight hours earlier I had also been forced to get train-track braces along my bottom row of teeth. My emergent wisdom teeth had started to squeeze two of my front teeth, so apparently I'd need braces for 'only' 8-10 months to correct the problem. Which meant that the entire bottom half of the inside of my mouth was ripped open with cuts and mouth ulcers, while the rest of my body sweated and shook from the force of the stomach bug. All in all, this was not going to go down in history as one of the better weeks of my life.

I walked back into my bedroom and made a bee-line for the welcome warmth of my bed. In the depths of my discomfort, my feelings towards my student bed had swiftly transformed from one of irritable contempt to affectionate dependency. The bed no longer seemed like a lumpen mattress, but a cocoon of nurturing heat. While I burned up inside, my skin felt ice cold; my mouth was cut to ribbons and my teeth felt like they were being pulled slowly, much against their will. Which, I suppose, is precisely the intention of dental braces.

I pulled my covers up around me and contemplated calling Sebastian. Feeling this awful had weakened my defences against him. He was never really entirely off my mind, even in the first full few hectic months of starting a new life at university. There were times, like there had been ever since the start of summer, when I could believe, at least on the surface, that breaking up with him had been the right thing to do. Despite all the extenuating circumstances that could explain, logically, why he'd kissed someone else, the fact still remained that Sebastian liked to party (which he'd be doing a lot of at uni) and he had been quite prepared -- I think -- to withhold the truth from me, until Virginia and Robbie made that impossible for him. Breaking up with him had been practically necessary under those circumstances. Right? 

There were times, though, when I was feeling less strident; when I missed him. His allure and the memory of his touch was particularly seductive in the twilight between sleep and awake. It was then that I would curl in bed and imagine the pillow was his chest and that he was here, next to me.

God. 

How embarrassing.

I picked up the phone and scrolled down to the 'S' section, but 'Sebastian' was not there. In a fit of self-preserving wisdom, I must have deleted it, lest a moment like this should arise. I didn't know whether to proud of myself or incandescently irritated. In either case, getting up to Facebook him to say 'My mouth hurts and I'm sick. I miss you,' would be pathetic and stupid -- and given how shivery I was, particularly unappealing. 

I covered my eyes and tried to get some sleep. 

*

-- From Sebastian's point of view --

Over the first few months of college, Will and I continued to hook-up, with no strings attached. We did it fairly infrequently, but it was fun, safe and easy. He was great in bed and a nice guy, but the romantic spark never materialized. To both of our shared reliefs, I'm certain. There were other guys, too; two more. The first was a guy called Edward. Or Ed, as everyone called him at college. He was slim, with dark hair and blue eyes. One night, after a messy social, he gave me head in his bathroom. It was a great blowjob, but the next day, Ed was a bit awkward with me and didn't speak to me for a few weeks. It turned out that, like Michael Suzette, Ed hadn't come out yet and I had absolutely no intention of getting involved with someone like that. I don't judge anyone's situation, and I really do mean that, but I've seen too many good guys get their hearts broken, and their reputations ruined, by getting involved with a guy who's in the closet - who then blames them for everything that happens. I'd put distance between myself and Michael back in high school and for the same reason, I reciprocally began avoiding Ed once my friend, Helen, told me about his situation. I heard later, years later, actually, that he had come out, but that it had been messy and quite a few hearts were broken in the process. I dodged a bullet.

The guy after Ed was actually the first American I'd slept with. Apart from myself, I guess. If masturbation counts. (I'm kidding.) The guy was studying in London for a year and was two years older than me. He played basketball, was about my height, tall, toned, black and with really incredible warm brown eyes. We ended up in my room one night and I kissed him, softly but with a firm edge in it to let him know what I wanted. His name was Lewis and he wanted the same thing. I felt a sizable erection beginning to grow in his pants and we moved over to my bed. He began smoothly unzipping my crotch and unbuckling my belt. 

"Thank fuck, man," he smiled. "I've wanted this since the first time I met you."

"Me too," I responded, as his hand slipped in to my boxers, made flesh contact with my dick and began to expertly massage it to full salute. This felt incredible. Lewis dropped down, as he fished my cock out of my pants, and I yanked my top up off over my head. His mouth was warm, wet and it definitely did not belong to a novice. He began moving up and down, his eyes gazing up as me as my raging boner slipped in and out of his lips.

"Fuck! That feels good," I complimented. "Fuck, Lewis. That's incredible."

"I want it in my ass," he purred. This was an unexpected side of him. Out in public, he was fairly quiet, well-mannered and confidently masculine. In bed though, he was sultry, seductive and downright slutty. I liked that. I've always respected a guy who can cut loose in the bedroom, but has respect for himself outside of it. I liked Lewis and ran my hands across his head appreciatively.

"Don't worry. You'll get it," I promised, "after a bit more of this. You give great fucking head, dude."

A pleased smile flashed across Lewis's face and he dived back onto my penis. He slurped and slobbered over it, but never took his eyes off my face as he did so. I was going to give him the fuck of his life. That's why he wanted and he'd earned it.

"Get on your back," I commanded. Lewis pulled himself off my dick and as I moved down the bed, he moved up it. "Legs in the air," I said, in the same tone. He complied and I flicked my tongue across his puckered asshole. He purred slightly above me, as I began to tongue it properly. I love rimming; I always have. It's warm and intense, personal and sordid. As my tongue began to slip further and further into Lewis's dilating hole, I felt his toes curl in the air above me. I smirked and pulled my head away to spit on him before gently pushing the spit inside him with my finger. He let out a gasp and a whispered, "Fuck, yes," and I decided to mess with him. All in the name of bedroom fun.

"You still want my dick, Lewis?" I taunted, moving my finger in and out of him.

"Yes," he replied; his eyes closed.

"More than this finger." In. Out. He nodded and bit his lip.

"How much do you want it?" In. Out. In. Out. 

"So much. Please."

I reached over to the bedside table and rustled around for some condom and lube. Once I'd sheathed up and cover myself with lube, I began to slowly ease into him. A contented look spread across Lewis's face and I leaned down to kiss him once I'd buried myself, balls-deep, inside him. Our tongues pressed slowly against one another and I felt his asshole contract around my cock a bit; I wondered if he was doing it on purpose. If he was teasing me and pleasuring me. 

"I've wanted you inside me since the first day I met you," he groaned, repeating his earlier point. "You're. So. Fucking. Hot."

I began to pick up my pace. It was an energetic fuck; one by two athletes. Sweat was pouring off us forty minutes later, with Lewis now on top of me, and riding me just the way I liked. Sweat slicked down his abs and fuck knows how much noise we were making. With a load groan, he shot a huge load of spunk all over me, spraying across my neck, chin and face. I grabbed onto his waist and held him in place as I roared with orgasm into the condom. When it was over, he collapsed onto me and I put my arm around him. 

"Fuck. That was intense."

"Yes, it was," I agreed. "You're welcome to stay, if you want."

"Cool, dude. Thanks."

We fell asleep in each other's arms and the next morning, we fucked in the shower. Like Will, Lewis soon became a regular in my college bedroom. He was a beautiful man, and a fantastic fuck.

*

It would be easy, now, to say that I regretted that next year of my life. What could be termed my 'slut' year in college. It would be easy to say that, now that I'm married to the love of my life, who I met in high school. It would easy to say that, but it would be fundamentally dishonest. I don't regret it. Why should I? Rory and I went down the path we were meant to go down. I really do believe that. And both of us worked out of our system what needed to be worked out. In many ways, I guess you could say I'm glad it happened. And not just because of the sex. 

Over the next year, after Ed and Lewis, I went to bed with fifteen more people, excluding intermittent fuck sessions with Will and Lewis. Of those fifteen, three were bad and four were forgettable. Of the eight that qualified as good sex, four were phenomenal. There's a red-blooded instinct in me, the frat boy, the jock, or whatever you want to call it, that makes me want to tell the story to you, in detail. After all, this is what this is, isn't it? A stroll down memory lane; the story of a life that was defined by love, with a bump in the middle? So I will, at some point, go through them; all the good ones, anyway. I think I'd like that. And, yes, a little bit of it would be boasting. However, after the Lewis story, perhaps one further point of information should be clarified, before returning to the guy talk. It's a point of sentiment and it's an important one.

In that year of adjusting to life at university, when I did well for myself in terms of my sexual partners, it's worth noting that I did not go off the rails. I did well at my studies, I made friends, I socialized and I kept in touch with my friends back home. I was well-adjusted, I guess you could say, and I never let myself get into a situation that I would regret or was uncomfortable. There was one encounter, actually, where I came very close to regretting, but given that I learned an important lesson about myself via it, I suppose it's technically untrue or misleading to say that I 'regretted' it, even. Anyway. As the months passed and the new life -- friends, lovers, work, school -- built-up around me, the conscious knowledge of missing Rory faded. The recognizable, unavoidable thump of pain at our separation went away. But, looking back on it, the absence of him remained with me, even though I was not always aware of it. It would trite and stupid, a talk-show-worthy platitude, to say that I threw myself into bed with those guys to distract myself from the fact that I couldn't have Rory. I didn't; I had sex with them because I liked sex and because I could. That may be an unpalatable statement to some, but it isn't to me. I was nineteen/twenty years old and single. I wasn't a monk. Anyway, I digress and I'm ranting.

At no point, however, did I fall in love and there was always some special piece of me, of my mind or heart, or whatever it should be called, that I didn't give to any of the guys I encountered. But which I had given freely to Rory. I didn't really go on dates and not just because that culture isn't as big in the UK as it is in the US. As the months rolled by, I stopped thinking about Rory all the time, but I would catch myself referring to him as 'my boyfriend,' or 'my ex,' or telling people, 'I just broke up with someone.' These phrases would slip out, without me noticing. My life in that year was happy; it was fun. But I did not have him and it would only be when I saw him again that I decided that would need to change.



Rory and Sebastian Ch. 18



-- Thank you to everyone for your feedback and encouragement. Everyone in this story is over the age of 18. The first part of the story is told from Rory's POV --

I turned at the sound of voices outside. Lights, oddly chequered and orange-tinged, were now flickering through the blinds, as well. I was confused and rolled over in my bed. From what I could tell, it was still pitch-black outside and the train wasn't due to reach London until nearly eight o'clock in the morning. Still, I reasoned, it is December -- it could still be dark at eight. Had we reached London already? I flicked the reading light on above my head and glanced at my watch. It was only just after half-past four. Hours before we were due to reach the capital. I got up and immediately felt a tidal-wave of nausea crash over me. I paced over to my cabin window to lift the blue blinds up so that I could see what was going on outside. Through the dim lights of the platform, I could make out a red-and-white signboard with the word "Preston" written on it. We were in the north of England -- half-way between where we'd boarded and where we were going to. A few people were getting on; one or two were getting off. I pulled the blind down and swayed for a few seconds, wondering whether to go back to bed or if I'd need to go into my bathroom to be sick again. 

The stomach bug I'd developed in the last two weeks of my first term at university had not gone away. In fact, it had gotten worse. I was vomiting regularly, sweating and shivering simultaneously, and I was permanently exhausted. Realising that there was absolutely no way that I would make it through a flight back home for Christmas, much less a long drive, my parents had booked me a cabin on the Caledonian over-night sleeper train that ran between Aberdeen and London. My mother had come up to Scotland to help me and we'd boarded together at Leuchars, shortly before midnight. We'd booked two first class cabins, because they were single berth rooms and each had their own bathroom. An unfortunate necessity for me, given the current state of my vomit-prone biology. Any illusion that first class meant that I'd be travelling on something akin to the Orient Express, however, was blown out of the water by seeing the cool white-and-blue modernity of the train. It looked like the interior of a very small business hotel. Still, it was room and I could sleep -- or shiver -- until we reached London, where a prayer card and a sick bag would hopefully enable me to survive the one hour journey drive back to Kent. 

I hadn't realised the train stopped so many times. It seemed to defeat the purpose of getting a good night's sleep, I thought irritably. (Maybe that was just my drained body talking through its almighty humanity-hating, sleep-addled strop.) A whistle blew outside and the train gave a lurch as it began its journey southward again. I felt my skin begin to break out in a cold sweat again and I slid open the door to the bathroom. The whole cabin already smelt like the room of a sick person. I repulsed myself as I wretched into the toilet. I didn't know how my body kept producing so much sick. Surely, it was all gone? Surely, there was nothing left to vomit? I hadn't eaten properly in days. I couldn't keep anything down. 

When I was done, I got shakily too my feet and looked in the bathroom mirror. Even allowing for the unforgiving harshness of a sink light, I looked awful. My eyes were black beneath them and my skin looked like paper. I was disgusting and I needed to sleep. As I moved back into bed, pulling the covers up around me and wondering how long it would be before I found them too hot, I checked my phone through instinct, rather than anything else. There was nothing there; I switched it off. For a second, I had contemplated phoning someone or texting someone. Texting a someone was an honest declaration, but to phone a 'someone' at this time of the night or about something this trivial would not have entailed a 'someone.' It would have meant -- could only have meant, even after six months -- Sebastian. 

I slipped my phone underneath my pillow. A little loneliness when I was feeling sick was no reason to wake Sebastian Carson, or anyone, out of their slumber. During my time with Sebastian, I had become entirely dependent on his unerring, unwavering support and companionship. I could see that now. He was always pleased to hear from me - and vice-versa, of course. But we were not together now and I was no longer in the full flush of first love. As I grew up, I was going to have to become responsible for dealing with the less pleasant parts of my life on my own. I could not always expect constant company and validation from those around me; it was not their job to act as a permanent hug to my ego or self-esteem. By being so dependent on people like Sebastian for validation, I'd also opened myself up to being too susceptible to people like Joshua Peterly for criticism. I guess, in that sense, speaking to a councillor for a few months had been a good idea. And having a brain of my own, too -- that helped. There was no need to call or text anyone just now. I wasn't feeling well; that was unfortunate. But I was a big boy and I could sleep it off on my own. 

I reached up above my head and flicked-off the compartment's light. The darkness swept over my like a soothing blanket. From outside, a few bursts of half-dimmed orange light swirled and distorted behind the blinds. After a few moments, the train must have left behind all signs of urban life as it sped through the night of the English countryside towards London. The darkness was complete and the gentle rocking of the train, which my mother despised, was, to me, like a calming rocking of the cradle. Rain began to fall -- hard and heavy. Or perhaps it just sounded heavier because it was falling on the roof of the train? I didn't mind. I liked it, actually. It felt cosy, somehow. In this kind of dark and this kind of mood, you could almost believe it was the Orient Express. Or something like it. The nausea and head pain remained, but the insomnia did not. In a few moments, I drifted gratefully off into my sleep. 

*

-- The rest of this installment is from Sebastian's POV --

I rolled over in my bed at the sound of the rain -- hard, thick and heavy -- lashing against my windows. It was my last night of semester in London and tomorrow I was due to go home. I'd chosen to spend it alone. There were lots of last-minute parties going on and both Will and Lewis had indicated that they'd like to spend the night with me. But I wanted to be alone. The last week of semester had been manic. I'd had a paper due in on regalism in 18th century Spain and I'd never done Spanish history before, which meant I'd spent weeks researching it and by the time I finished it, I was beat. I'd handed the finished paper in that morning and my room still had a trash can full of disposable coffee cups; a well-thumbed copy of a weather-beaten book called "King Charles III of Spain: An Enlightened Despot," still sat, spine practically broken, on my bedside table. I was exhausted and Evan was coming to pick me up at noon the next day. I needed to be up early to pack. But, annoyingly, I couldn't get into a proper sleep and kept waking. 

I was nervous about going home. I was excited to see my family again, since I'd only been able to have a few lunches and dinners with them when they were in London individually and never all together, since I'd left. But it did occur to me that now was probably the time to try and properly mend bridges with Robbie. He had been one of the people whose friendship I valued the most in the whole school, but after Rory and I broke-up, it was hard for Robbie and I to remain as close as we had been. I didn't blame him for that. He was one of Rory's best friends and he had been for years. I also knew, though, that although he didn't approve of what had happened, he'd been forgiving, in his own way. He was a good guy; he understood. I hoped that him and I could go grab a drink together and maybe just ease back into how easy conversation between us had once been. I had faith Robbie and I were both decent enough guys and good enough friends for that to be possible. The only thing I worried about was that I didn't want it to look like I was being disregarding of Rory's feelings in re-initiating contact with his best friend. And not him.

Although it had been Rory who instigated our break-up, and it was him who stuck to it, despite my initial pleas, I also knew that I'd given him cause. I did not want to be cruel to him or for him to think that I was some douchebag who thought I could carry on with my life back home without any regard for my ex. But maybe I was exaggerating Rory's wrath in my head? Maybe, actually, going to see him would be the best thing, before seeing Robbie. I mean, did I actually think I'd go my whole life without ever seeing Rory Masterton again? But what would happen when we saw each other again? Would it kick up all the old feelings? It would be so complicated if it did, but even worse, somehow, if it did not. What if it was awkward or weird or just plain comfortable? Comfortable would be the worst, I decided. It would mean we could act as if we'd never been anything to each other. I'd rather have it be hideous than be nothing. I sighed in the darkness and tried to put Rory from my mind. But for the first time in a few weeks, he wouldn't go and the memories, drip, drip, dripping, of how happy we'd been, fell on my brain and kept me awake far longer than if I'd yielded to my teammates' suggestion and gone out partying instead.

*

The drive home to Kent with my big brother, Evan, was nice and it passed quickly. Evan and I had a similar sense of humor and a similar outlook on life. He drove and helped me down with my bags. As the less-attractive of the London suburbs gave way to the green countryside I knew so well, Evan began teasing me about my love life. He'd broken up with his high school girlfriend, Sarah, just before college and by his own admission, he'd lived wildly afterwards. They were back together now, though, something that could not be said for me and Rory.

"So," he teased, as we drove down the motorway, "fucking all round you?"

"There've been four," I said, tapping my leg through my gray sweats. 

"Sounds about right," Evan replied. "Anyone special?"

"No," I answered, with sledgehammer honesty. "A couple of regulars, though."

"That's a Carson for you! Any word from Rory?"

I fell silent and shrugged. 

"Take it that's a no, then?"

"No," I agreed. "Nothing."

"How are you feeling about you two now?"

"I dunno. I thought I was over it, but last night, I couldn't stop thinking about him, Ev. Like, not even a little bit. Do you think I should see him?"

Evan bit his lip and thought. "I dunno, Seb. I really, really don't know. I mean, if you do go and it's weird, you'll be annoyed. If you don't go... Geez, I dunno! Are you over him?"

"I dunno."

"That means you're not."

"I... he just... Fuck's sake! I'm not even home yet and he's already..." I lightly tapped the window with my clenched fist. "How am I not over this?" Evan gave me a mocking, pitying smile and I laughed: "Fuck off."

*

I was right about how nice it would be to be home with family again for Christmas. Even if the euphoric welcome home given by my mother lasted exactly fifteen minutes before she had me doing chores again and berating me for the deplorable state of my laundry. My kid sister Jenny was thrilled to have me back, even though we'd last seen each other two weeks earlier when she was up in London to visit; me, her and Evan went for a siblings-reunited walk around the country lanes near our house. The air was crisp and cool, and night was setting in. Yesterday's rain had vanished, to be replaced by an encroaching frost. I liked it. I liked being back and being out of London for a while. Jenny, too, brought up Rory to me, but she did it less seriously than Evan had -- she'd always liked Rory and known less of why he and I broke-up than Evan, who'd been the one to comfort me when I was most upset about it.

The next couple of days were taken-up by frantic last minute Christmas shopping. Evan and I, despite both having been in London with thousands of shops to do our shopping in, had, of course, both left it all to the last minute and were now in a fluster, racing from village to town to village trying to find appropriate presents for our parents and Jenny. It was when we were passing the Catholic church near us that I thought back to how I'd spent last Christmas Eve, when Rory had gone to Midnight Mass there with his family; with that I went with my gut and called him as soon as I got home -- silently hoping he hadn't changed his cell number since we were together.

A beat. A panic. A ring. 

A few more rings.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Rory?"

"Yes?"

"It's Sebastian."

A pause; he was gathering his thoughts and the realization hit me that he mustn't have had Caller ID for me. He'd deleted my number. "Hi," he said. He sounded weird.

"Are you... okay?"

"In general?"

"Well, specifically, actually? You sound weird."

"I'm in bed," he answered. Once that answer would have elicited a flurry of filthy comments from me and I heard a small laugh in his throat, faint but genuine, as he made the connection at the same time I did. "Sick," he clarified. "It's nothing serious, just a virus. I should be fine in a week or so, apparently. Dr Symonds said so today. How are you? Are you home?"

"Yes," I answered. "Just finished Christmas shopping with Evan."

"You left it late." He sounded absolutely awful.

"You know me." I found myself thinking 'don't you?' pathetically and I was annoyed at myself for it. I wanted him, just for a second to sound like the old Rory. Just give me one second. Please. "I got you a Christmas card."

"Does it have Jesus on it?"

"Yes. And Mary, Joseph, the three wise men and angels in the top corner. It looks like the Renaissance exploded on it."

"Good," he laughed. "You know Christmas cards with Santa and some fat elves on it make me sick."

"Maybe that's what has you flat on your back now? Secularism?" I laughed. "At least something's done it. Now that I'm not there."

I just made a sex joke. Fuck.

He laughed. Thank God.

"Sebastian..."

"Yes?"

"Nothing."

I didn't speak. I wanted him to correct his 'nothing.'

"I should go. Mummy will be here with food soon. If I... If I feel any better, would you maybe like to meet up for coffee before new year's?"

"I'd like that, yes. A lot. I really would, Rory."

"Okay. Me too. I'll call you when I'm feeling better. Happy Christmas."

"You too. Bye, Rory."

"Bye, Sebastian."

*

Rory, of course, never did call. He sent me a message a few days later, explaining that he was still in bed, still sick and didn't feel up to seeing anybody. But he wished me a merry Christmas and a happy new year's. A few days after that, I flew over to America to visit my grandparents and by the time we came back to England, it was time for me to go back to college. It was a wonderful trip and while I was disappointed not to have seen Rory, his politeness gave me the courage to contact Robbie. We met, we laughed, and the subject of Rory was carefully avoided, without too much awkwardness being drawn to the absence of him. I deluded myself, I think, into believing that our short phone call had offered both Rory and I a kind of closure that we hadn't had before. That, by being able to speak to one another and to be able to pass by one another in such close proximity without being devastated by a failure to meet, we had somehow crossed the Rubicon of one another. I thought that, now, at last, I could put Rory in a box of memories -- perfect and preserved forever in my memory as we'd been when we were happy. I could trap him and I like a fly caught in amber. I had, so I thought, put to rest all hope of ever getting back together with him and I was still functioning. I was no longer heartbroken; we were finished and what we had left one another with, at least in my head, were happy memories of a first love. A glorious, foolish, hysterical, cloying, crippling, heart-crushing, soul-hugging summer love. The pain had gone and I could move on.

Initially, at least, that did not translate into any great desire to find another relationship. I was aware, on some level, that Rory would be a hard act to follow and that everything would suffer by virtue of comparison. I was also keenly conscious that I was young, single, in good health, good shape and a rugby player at college. For some reason, a rugby player, a jock, whatever, seems to be a staple of a lot of gay guys' fantasies and when there are only two of you in the whole university -- myself and Will -- (well, two openly), then you're in a good position to reap the advantages of that collective fantasy. To put it bluntly, I had a lot of sex over that next year and, like I promised, a short stroll down Memory Lane is in order -- the good, the bad and the ugly.

Sometimes, the wrong key goes in the right lock -- in this case, sometimes people just aren't sexually compatible. Without sounding too full of myself, I consider myself to be fairly good in bed. But that year saw three incidents of bad sex: Tyler, Philip and Grant. Tyler was a twinky medical student with overly-dyed hair, who I ended up inside after too many jaegerbombs at a flat party. Given how much I'd drunk, it's admittedly probable that the awkward friction and constant dick-falling-out-of-ass situation that occurred was more my fault than Tyler's. Philip was a handsome politics student in the year above me, with a well-kept dark beard and lovely blue eyes. By his own admission, Philip was "a bit of a slut," who had slept with most of the gay guys in all three academic undergraduate year groups. His head-giving abilities were incredible, but once the actual sex started, he kept trying to change positions as many times as possible. I felt like a gymnast and by the end of it, I definitely wanted to execute the dismount. Grant, the last of the bad sex triplets, was tall, with a retro Zac-Efron-style haircut. He was a nice guy, camp and really funny, but for all his bravado, once we actually made it into bed after going to a friend's flat for dinner, he lay there like a piece of lettuce. He tried to initiate sex again with me a few weeks later, but I'd learnt my lesson and politely declined, using the (actually quite valid) excuse of the paper I had due in the next day.

There four hook-ups that were neither bad, nor good. All of them forgettable one-night stands and par for the course for most people's college experience. Keith was a short guy, with short brown hair but beautiful big dark brown eyes, which I love, and naturally tanned skin. We'd flirted a bit before being left alone together at the end of a party he'd hosted in his room; I offered to help tidy up and one thing led to another. The sex was okay, but neither of us were tempted to let it lead onto anything else or to re-initiate it afterwards. A few of our friends knew and we were both good-naturedly teased about it on-and-off in drinking games and 'I have nevers' for months to come. Nathan was a music student -- tall, dark and handsome with a definite "edge" to him. He had a few tattoos, which I'm usually not too big a fan of, but they certainly worked on him. Unfortunately, after our one and only date, we ended up back at my room and he wanted to be the top. He jack-rabbited me and while I'm all for a bit of rough sex, there are limits. He irritated me even more the next day by Facebook messaging me to say that he hoped he hadn't led me on, but he really wasn't looking for anything too serious. Considering that we'd had one date and I had, at no point, indicated that I was looking for something serious, it seemed like an asshole thing to do to dump someone before you actually start dating them. I didn't write back; life is too short to indulge in somebody else's fantasies of importance.




Rory and Sebastian Ch. 18



After Nathan, there was Matty and then Eric. Matty was a good looking guy, but he was far too aware of it, and while he was great to look at in bed, like most people who've been told they're beautiful their entire lives, he made no real effort -- either in bed or out of it. Eric was a pretty musical theatre student from the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts, near our college, but after we slept together, he told me that he had a boyfriend back home in Canada and I got pretty pissed. I told him I didn't want to get caught up in anything like that and left. Fuck, I was angry that night. It brought back a lot of memories that I was keen to avoid and I was livid that someone could glibly hop into bed with someone who wasn't their boyfriend, when I'd torn myself up about one kiss. One that I hadn't even particularly wanted. People always have the power to surprise you and usually in a bad way.

There was also four guys who I really enjoyed having sex with -- Steve, Joe, John and Paul. Steve was a good-looking bisexual guy from Belfast, with spiky brown hair and a cute smile. We'd been friends since we both took a class in Spanish history together in first semester and I liked him a lot. Steve was open, engaging, genuine, friendly and honest. One night we were talking about our sex lives and he was explaining how frustrating he found it when people reacted badly or rudely to the label of bisexuality. 

"Dude, I think that's bullshit," I said, honestly. "Fuck! I'm sure it must be more frustrating to be bi than gay. At least most people believe being gay actually exists."

"Nah, I wouldn't want to say that," Steve said, quickly. "I wouldn't want to diminish anybody else's difficulties, you know? It's just frustrating when people act like you're confused or greedy or a nymphomaniac."

We ended up kissing as he left and as I slipped my hand up under his t-shirt, I felt him smile into our kiss. As I took him over to the bed, I felt how hard he was. 

"Do you want to be on top?" I asked, removing my own sweater.

"No, Seb," he grinned. "I really, really want to be fucked tonight."

I could never pinpoint afterwards why exactly nothing ever happened between Steve and I. Or why even the question of something happening was never raised. After we were finished fucking, he got up and happily chatted to me as he got dressed, like nothing had happened. The next day, we were back to normal as friends. We drank together, socialized together, stayed as friends and what happened that night never seemed to have any discernible impact on either of us. 

Joseph was a finalist student, also doing History, who I met one night when he was sitting next to me working frantically on his dissertation about the Irish War of Independence. I was working on a paper on the South Sea Bubble crisis and looked down in confusion when I'd absent-mindedly reached out to my pile of books and lifted back one entitled "Green against Green." At the same time, the guy opposite me at the library table was glancing down at a biography I'd been looking for called "The Great Outsider." We looked over at each other and our eyes met; he looked like an edgier version of Rory. Brown eyes that seemed to glitter solely through the force of his personality, brown hair (longer than Rory's) and a strange, enigmatic half-smile that seemed to be amused at both himself and the world, all in one go. 

"I think this is yours," he said, handing over the biography. "Sorry, lad, I must have set some of my books on your pile. The stress'll do that to you."

I passed over his book on the Irish war. "Not a problem, dude," I smiled. I caught the Irish accent; warm and melodious. Different to Steve's; southern, rather than northern. Slightly less distinct and more musical. There were quite a few Irish students at college and I'd learned, roughly, when to tell the difference- well, that, coupled with the fact that half of Rory's cousins had been Irish and they're picky about that kind of thing.

"How's it going?" I asked, by way of keeping conversation going so that I didn't have to start working again right away. This topic was torture to write about. 

"My dissertation," he said, ruefully. "Irish War of Independence. You?"

"South Sea crash. Ye Olde Recession," I joked. "You're a finalist, then?"

"For my sins, yes. It's hard going. First year?"

I answered in the affirmative and that was the beginning of my friendship with Joseph Dempsey. Joe was a nice guy, with a wicked sense of humor, but naturally shy and quite quiet. He had come-out in his gap year after high school and had dated the same guy for all of his time at university. Three months before we met, they had broken up and although he would seldom talk about it, you could tell his heart was still hurting. 

We sat next to each other throughout spring term, working comfortably in the library. My work load was heavy and his was psychotic. One night, after I'd spent far more time in the company of William Pitt the Younger than I'd have liked and Joe had exhausted himself translating a document from Irish into English, we both went for a drink at a bar nearby. One drink turned into three and then into five and that turned into us making out furiously in his apartment. Fifteen minutes later and I was on my back with his sheathed cock sliding in and out of me. The sex was good and Joe was an amazing kisser, but during the kisses, I could sense his loneliness and his desperation. The unseen ghost of his dead relationship was in that room with us and as much as I liked him, it began to make me feel uncomfortable. Especially afterwards. Joe sat on the edge of the bed, gently rubbing my leg, but gazing off into the distance and slightly hunched over. I got up and kissed him on the cheek, before getting my clothes from where they'd scattered in our pre-sex rush. 

"It's okay, Joe," I whispered. "We don't have to talk about this and nothing has to change. I get it. You're not over him and that's okay. I'll see you tomorrow."

We never slept together again and although we continued to work near one another in the library, I could tell he felt uncomfortable around me now. The friendship slowly died and four months later, Joe graduated with a first class honors degree. Part of his dissertation was later published academically and today, he's married with an adopted kid. He and his husband live near to the university where Joe teaches Irish history and his husband teaches something to do with science. From what I can tell, the husband is not the guy who broke Joe's heart in that final year of university. I'm glad about that and happy that Joe is happy. He deserves it and I know he'd be a great husband and father.

There is a tiny, tiny part of me that wonders what would have happened if Joe had reacted differently the first time after we slept together. While I wouldn't change the direction my life has gone in, there's no point in denying that it was simply a friendship that had spiraled into sex, like Steve and mine's had. I had grown to like Joe and, looking back on it, I definitely had a crush on him. His discomfort at the fact we'd slept together did hurt me, not least because I didn't like to see him upset. That encounter with Joe Dempsey was a bit of a turning-point for me. It reawakened a desire for something slightly more serious and I began to enjoy casual hook-ups a lot less than I had done before. In the bacchanalian last week of spring semester, I slept with two different guys -- a blond tennis player called John and a drama student called Paul. When I told my friend Helen that I'd slept with two guys called John and Paul, she made a joke about that being the name of the last pope and that maybe I had some secret fetish for Catholicism. Unbidden, the image of Rory arose in my head and conflated with Joe. The knowledge that I was beginning to look for something deeper moved from my unconscious into my conscious.

Joe Dempsey also changed something else in me. For months I'd happily been bed hopping and enjoying myself. Like I said, I don't regret it too much now and I love sex, but the image of him on the night we'd slept together made me realize that it wasn't always possible for sex just to be fun and devoid of attachments. Not everyone was going to be able to experience it in the same laissez-faire way that me, Steve, Will or Lewis could. Even they couldn't do it all the time. In April, Will broke off our friends-with-benefit style arrangement to pursue dating someone he actually cared about and Steve was dating a girl from our course by the time we left college for Easter.

Spring break was short for us and I didn't go back to Kent, but to Virginia to spend time with my grandparents and cousins. It was great and I had the best time; I begin to think about spending my summer out here. There'd certainly be more to do than in Kent. When I was on my own, I'd think back to my first year at college and about what I really wanted from my second. Since moving to London in September, I had slept with fifteen people: Patrick, Will, Ed, Lewis, Eric, Grant, Keith, Matty, Nathan, Philip, Tyler, Steve, Joe, John and Paul. Fifteen people in eight months isn't doing too badly, but it's not exactly great for your inner self-esteem, either, when you realize that not one of those people was interested in pursuing anything more serious with you.

By the time I returned to London, the final semester was taken up a lot with house hunting. I had decided to move in with two girls, my Irish friend Helen and her friend Jess, and a friend from my course, Peter. I figured if I moved in with any guys from the rugby team, I'd never get any work done and Pete, who played soccer for our college, had become a really good friend of mine over the last few months. He was funny, tall, lean and had a filthy sense of humor. He'd been dating his girlfriend, Ruth, since high school and she was so nice that none of us minded the fact that she'd been down to London to visit and stay fairly often once we had a house together.

That summer semester between April and June I ended-up having sex with four more people, despite my vague intention to quit the sex-heavy lifestyle. As if I was being taunted by what I was potentially distancing myself from, the sex with all four of those guys was absolutely fantastic. Jamie, an indie kid in the year above me with a cocky smirk and a "v" on his abs, fucked me so hard over my room's desk that I swear I had the elusive double male orgasm and shot a huge wad of spunk onto my laptop. Lee was a guy from my class who, by his own admission, planned to sleep with anything and everything until graduation. He was ridiculously arrogant and, I suspect, slightly stupid, but the sex was mind-blowing. Tim was a friend of Peter's, visiting from their home in Scotland; he was tall, like Peter, and thin, with cropped light brown hair and hazel eyes. Like Peter, he was a really sweet guy. He also turned out to have a massive cock, which I experienced firsthand (if you'll pardon the pun) after a game of shot roulette got out of hand one night, resulting in us stumbling into my room to fuck our brains out. He was easily about nine inches long and it hurt, in a good way, as I felt his head break in through my back door. Tim reminded me of myself in a lot of ways. He was laid back about sex and enjoyed it. He was on top first and then, when we'd gathered our breath, it was my turn. When it was over, he gave me a playful smirk and rubbed his ass, "Fuck, lad, I'll not be able to sit down properly for a week after that."

"Worth it," I laughed. "A good fuck is always worth it."

But it was the two nights that I went to bed with a guy called Harry that ended up teaching me the biggest lesson about myself and what I wanted in life. The sex with Harry was out of this world; a no-holds-barred fuck-fest. But the feelings that came along with it were far less enjoyable.

Harry, to be clear from the start, is over twenty years older than me. He's a businessman from Washington State, who my father used to work with and who never married, never settled down. I had vaguely remembered hearing about him, in passing, when my father was talking about a company he'd done some work for in Singapore, years earlier. But if he'd ever been to the house or met our family, I didn't remember him. On the afternoon when I submitted my last piece of work for the summer semester, I got a phone call from my dad.

"Hey, Dad. What's up?"

"Hey, son. Did you get your work handed in okay?"

"Yep. About twenty minutes ago."

"Bet that feels good?"

"Like you wouldn't believe. What's up?"

"I know you probably have plans to go out and celebrate tonight, but could you do me a favor?"

"Maybe," I said, instantly wary. I suspected I'd be asked to say hello to one of Dad's colleagues, who was in town on business but who Dad couldn't meet himself. Last time we'd been wheedled into this favor, Evan and I had ended up spending 90 minutes in conversation with a personality bypass number cruncher who couldn't talk about anything but the FTSE 100. Which I didn't know anything about and Evan didn't care anything about.

"Harry Martyn is in the City on business for a couple of nights and he's there on his own and he doesn't know anyone. He took me and your uncle Simon out for drinks when we were in Seattle and he's been a good friend to me. I'd like to take him out myself, but..."

"You're in Cardiff," I finished for him, with a smile.

"I'm in Cardiff," he said. "Ordinarily, I wouldn't ask on the last night of your semester, but Harry's been a great friend to me and Simon and he'd do the same if we were stuck in town for a few days with no one to show us around. He's working with a Japanese bank in the City and if you met him for a drink or coffee this evening, I know he'd really appreciate it."

I groaned but agreed. My parents had raised all of us to have manners and in fairness, any time Dad or Uncle Simon were staying where their close business partners lived or worked, them and their families were equally good to them. I knew Dad hated traveling and the loneliness that could come with it, which is why he was doing it less and less as he got older, and I figured I may as well do a family friend a solid and meet up with him for a pint. I took down Harry's number from my father, called him and arranged to meet him at a bar near his hotel in Mayfair at 7:30. That would give him time to arrange dinner plans for later, if he had any, and me time to meet up with my friends back at college, too. 

As soon as I met Harry Martyn, my cock began to twitch. He was in his forties, I'd guess, and in great shape. His hair had a few streaks of silver, he was well-dressed, with a well-kept dark beard and a strong jaw. When he shook my hand, it was a strong handshake and he smelt of just the right amount of cologne. The man was definitely a silver fox. As we both ordered a beer and got to talking, he told me how he'd only been in London a few times, because his end of the business world was mostly with the States and Asia. He said he liked London as much as any big city, but since he had no real interest in history, he couldn't get as excited about it as he knew a lot of people would. He mentioned that he'd had to Google who Anne Boleyn and Thomas More were when his cabbie had pointed to the Tower of London as they drove past to tell him that's where the famous queen and the Catholic saint had died. I smiled politely at that and felt my attraction waning slightly. Even if you knew nothing about history, when someone points to the Tower of London and says a famous woman was beheaded inside it, at the very least some of the ads for "The Tudors" TV show should probably appear in your head. But when Harry got to talking about what he was good at -- namely business and sports -- he sounded less arrogant and less dismissive. He sounded upbeat and confident. 

"Do you play any sports yourself, Sebastian?" he asked, over our second pint. 

"Rugby and horse-riding," I said. "I like to swim, too."

"Rugby," he nodded. "Well, you've got the build for it -- although, I'll admit it's not a sport I know a lot about. I was a quarterback back in college, myself."

I nodded. I could see that. 

"So, are you enjoying college?"

"I am," I said, setting down my drink after a sip. "It was a lot to get used to at first, but, yeah, I really like it."

"I bet the girls go wild over a guy like you. Good looking, athlete, American."

I laughed a little. "Well, if they do, Harry, that's not much use to me."

"Pardon?"

"I'm gay."

"Oh," he said and I saw a spark of interest in his eyes. At least he wasn't a homophobe, I thought, not that I'd have moderated my answer if I thought he had been. "Well, I bet all the guys go crazy then too."

I shrugged and smiled. "I do alright."

"I bet you do," Harry laughed. "I was the same as you, back in college. I did alright."

"With the boys or the girls?" I teased.

"With the boys," he answered, staring at me. 

"Really?" I smiled. I definitely had not expected that. "I must have a crappy gaydar, Harry. I did not get a gay vibe off you at all."

"Ditto. I might have dressed up if I'd known."

"You look just fine," I answered, as I realized that we had now slipped into openly flirting with each other. 

"So do you," he replied.

Ten minutes later, Harry and I were talking about fun things to do in London and he rested his hand on my knee underneath the table. I felt a jolt of pure electricity between us and I looked at his smirking eyes, deciding what to do. On the one hand, this guy was a colleague of my father's and yet I was planning to swap cum with him as soon as I could. I wanted it; he wanted it. But he still worked for my father. Not that I assumed he'd say anything, but I needed to hear out loud that he wouldn't, because as much as I loved sex, I loved my father and his respect more.

"Harry."

"Yeah?"

"You wouldn't tell people if we fucked tonight, would you?" No point playing coy about it, I reckoned.

He smiled at my candor. "Absolutely not. Would you?"

"Hell, no."

"So, if I take you back to my hotel room," he said, quietly, "and ram-fucked the shit out of you all night long, you'd keep your mouth closed?"

"Not when I'm in the hotel room," I joked. "But, yeah, I want to, but you work with my dad."

"Not that often. And you're an adult; this has nothing to do with him."

That was all I needed to hear. I finished off my drink, re-arranged my boner underneath the table and stood up. I figured Dad probably didn't even know Harry was gay or if he did, wouldn't have thought it was relevant.

"Let's go then," I said.

He grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and walked out with me. We hailed a taxi and when the driver wasn't looked, Harry rubbed his hand over my denim-clad crotch. We took the steel and glass elevator in his soulless, business hotel up to the eighth flower and as he slid his electric key card into the look, he turned to me and winked. The phallic imagery was too much for either of us to ignore. The second we were in through the door, he pressed me up against the wall and kissed me. It wasn't exactly a falling on each other kind of thing. No clothes had come off, but I felt his firm dick through the fabric of his pants as he pressed against me and his tongue, forceful and insistent, invaded my mouth. I felt unexpectedly weak and heady in this guy's company and I liked it.

"That's an impressive hard on, you've got there," he whispered, throatily.

"Right back at you," I said, pulling him back in for another kiss and unbuttoning his shirt. When I'd pulled it off him, he took me over to the bed and he sat down on it. He kicked his shoes off and reached down to remove his socks. As he unbuckled his belt, he looked at me and said, "Strip for me, Sebastian."




Rory and Sebastian Ch. 18



"Seb'll do just fine," I corrected him, since 'Sebastian' was something that only my Mom called me. And Rory. I removed my shirt and shoes. Then I unbuckled my belt and yanked down my jeans a bit so that he could see the tag line of my underwear, then I slowly unbuttoned my crotch, pulled down by jeans and stepped out of them. My dick was poking out of my briefs it was so hard. I pulled my underwear off; I was left standing solely in my socks, jerking my dick. Harry was doing the same, having extracted his from his pants. I let him get a good look at me and then walked over, held his head and kissed him, deeply. He pulled me onto the bed, rolling me over onto my back. He kicked himself out of his trousers and underwear and we began making out on the bed. I could feel the wetness of our pre-cums mixing off one another and the weight of him, solid muscle and strength, bearing down upon me. I ran my hands down to his butt and caressed his smooth cheeks. He must wax or something down there, because he had a fine dusting of hair on his chest which led me to think he would have it elsewhere. 

"I'm going to be rough with you," he promised. 

"I love to fuck, dude," I replied. 

"Suck my dick."

I pushed him onto his back and got up to stand over him. I reached down to peel away my socks and then his, so that we were both completely naked. I lowered myself down and began circling my tongue round and round on his cock head, like it was a candy cane. Harry groaned and ran his hand through my hair. After a while, I started to go down further and further on him, slowly opening up my throat and coating his rod in a fine sheen of my saliva. The guy's cock kept growing and, honestly, it was a fucking monster. If I'd thought Tim was big, I hadn't seen anything yet. Harry had a monster cock and giant, heavy balls. He was cut, too. I began gagging and choking, but I was determined to keep going. I felt Harry's hand on the back of my head get a little bit more aggressive, as he held me in place and began to slowly fuck in and out of my mouth. I was jerking my own dick as we went. 

"You like getting your face fucked, Seb?"

I thought, 'Heck, why not?' and nodded through the penis filling my mouth and throat.

Harry gave a short laugh. "I thought that. Get on your back." 

I eased my mouth off his cock and lay back on the bed. He pulled me forward until my head was hanging off the bed, upside down. I knew what was coming; I'd been face fucked a few times by Will and done it myself. I relaxed my throat as Harry reinserted his thickness into me and began gathering speed as he fucked my face like it was an asshole. I could feel his balls banging off my nose and wondered stupidly how I'd been able to take him so he was balls deep in my throat. 

"Oh, fuck, yeah. Take that, you hot slut," Harry growled. He saw me jerking off and then leaned over me. I choked a little as he moved and I could feel rivers of saliva pouring out the sides of my abused mouth. Then I felt his mouth slide over my tool and I groaned into his dick. As we kept up the sixty-nine, I ran my hands appreciatively over his ass. The guy may be fucking me like a whore, but he was giving as good as he got with the reciprocal blowjob. Eventually, though, it all got a bit much and I had to push him off to breathe properly. Taking the hint, he spun me round the opposite direction and pushed me back up on the bed. I'm a big guy and strong, but Harry could move me fairly easily. It was new experience. He forced my legs open properly, crawled between them and began slobbering over my dick again.

"This is a beautiful cock," he said, as he went to town on it. He stretched his hands up to my mouth and began to finger-fuck my face a little. I sucked on his fingers, running my tongue across them and I felt him murmur appreciatively into my crotch. 

By the time he took his fingers out, I was panting and red faced. "Fuck me," I said hoarsely. 

He climbed on top of me full again and stabbed his tongue deep into my mouth as his hand reached over to the bedside cabinet and extracted a tube of lube and some rubbers. He went back down on me to rim for a bit; it was the thing he was least good at it in sex, but still, a mediocre rim job is better than none. Am I right?

He clambered up to my face; his angry red piss slit only a few inches away from my mouth. He tossed the condom down onto me.

"Unwrap it and put it on me," he ordered, "then tell me what you want me to do to you."

I'm all for getting into sex properly when you're there, so I complied and opened it with my teeth. I knelt up, next to him, face to face, and began slowly unpeeling it, back onto his shaft. How the fuck that dom fitted onto him, I don't know. In another life, it must have been a parachute. 

"I want you to throw on my back, on my knees, on my side," I said, slowly and calmly, looking right into his eyes. I clicked open the lube and began to slather his erection with it. "I want you to fuck me on the pillows, on the floor, against the wall, against the door, against the sink, on the couch and on the bed. Let's fuck like there's no fucking tomorrow."

I bent over right in front of him and parted my cheeks as I slid a lubed up finger into it. "I want you to use this, Harry, and for us both to have a really fucking good time."

He growled and stepped forward, grabbing onto my hips in a vice grip, before placing his cock at the entrance to my body. "Ever had one this big in you before?"

"Would I be walking if I had?" I jibed.

Harry laughed and slowly began sliding into me. I gritted my teeth when we passed the eight inches mark, but I knew he was nearly finished. The discomfort was momentary and soon gave way to a feeling of pleasing fullness.

"Fuck, yes," I hissed. "That's amazing."

Slowly, Harry began to fuck in and out of me, hitting my prostate and all the right places as he went. He built up speed and spat in his hand, then gave me a reach around. For a while there was no sound in the room except for the slap, slap, slap of flesh on flesh, the slippery slurping sounds of a cock sliding through lube and our satisfied, masculine grunts. Then Harry said, "Ride me, boy."

He pulled out and lay on his back, hands cockily behind his head. I lowered myself onto his dick and sighed as it re-entered me. I locked into eye contact with him as I began riding him. I built up a rhythm more quickly this time. I contracted my chute around his erection a couple of times and he gasped in pleased delight, giving my ass a congratulatory spank when I did so. His hands were beefy and strong and they left a pleasant sting when they slapped me. I spat on his chest and used the spit to wetly tweak and roll his nipples. 

We fucked like that for about five or ten minutes and my asshole was beginning to hurt when he said, "Get on your back."

I pulled off him, grateful for the secondary respite. I flung my legs open and up in the air, like the cheapest whore I could imagine; he leaned down and kissed my again. I could feel his hand guiding his cock back in and he took no time at all, this time, in starting to brutally fuck me. The slap sounds of his balls against the bare skin of my butt were now constant. I ran my hands lustily across his rock hard chest and abs. Here I was, I thought, being fucked senseless by a guy who's over double my age. It felt just the right amount of filthy and I gave him a grin, before groaning again as my grin was wiped away by an especially hard thrust.

Later, we moved over to the wall. I stood with my hands bracing me against it, like a bottom in a real clichéd prison porno. Harry shimmied in and out of me with his hips moving with the fluidity of a professional dancer, snaking his arm around my chest that was just beginning to develop a spray of blond fuzz. I'd twist my head around to him and he sucked my tongue, possessively, domineeringly. After that, he had me turn round and hoisted me up until my legs were spread on either side of his hips, dangling completely in the air. Like I said, I'm not a little guy or a light one, but Harry was strong and I could see the muscles in his arms twitching as he held me, suspended in mid-air. From there, I was positioned so that my shoulders were bent up against the wall and I put my hands behind me. Once I had some kind of self-support, I began to fuck my ass off him. I could see he was impressed and he managed to hold himself still as I bucked up and down his pole. Halfway through this, he felt the condom break. After the abuse we'd put it through, it was pretty surprising that it lasted as long as it had. He pulled out of me and I half-groaned, half-actually-fucking-whimpered. It hurt like hell sometimes, but it was an amazing piece of meat and I'd gotten used to having it in me. 

"On your knees," he panted, through gritted teeth.

I did and I looked up at him as he winked off above me. I knew a facial was coming and I was jerking my own rod in anticipation. A shower of cum shot out from my slit and splattered over Harry's ankle, feet and the hotel carpets. I exhaled deeply and could feel the sweat cooling on my body. Harry was still looming over me, then, with a massive grunt, the first glob of his spunk landed on my forehead. The rest landed in thick gooey lumps onto my eyes, nose and chin. There was a lot of it. A big load. It was warm and I stroked his leg as he came. When it was over, I stood up. Panting.

"Dude, I'm crashing here tonight," I told him. My clothes were flung around the room. We'd been at it for over an hour. I was swore, soaked in jizz and sweat, and I was exhausted. I was not getting dressed and walking home after this. After the fuck I'd just given him, the least Harry could do was let me rest a little.

He slapped my ass by way of an affirmation. "Sure thing, kid. I'll have you again in the morning. Let's shower up."

We took a shower together. It was a big shower unit and it felt a bit like a hose down after a game. I admired Harry's body again, but more dispassionately. We dried-off comfortable in front of one another and I padded into bed, naked. Harry checked his phone for messages and then got in; his enormous dick swinging flaccidly as he walked over. He looked like he was going to get some sleeping shorts, but when he glanced over at me in his bed, he shrugged. I think he thought that since I was naked too, there was no point in the shorts.

The next morning, I woke up to the slurp and sensation of Harry Martyn giving me morning head. It was, needless to say, far better than any alarm clock and I gave him fair warning before I came. He held his head there and he let me come inside him - although I felt him pool it in his mouth then spit it into the sink when we were done. He showered alone and dried, before coming back in to me to get dressed.

"Order anything you like from room service," he told me. "I've got to get going."

I stretched and let the covers fall off me. I was still naked and I could see him looking at me with lust. "What are you doing tonight?" I asked. He was going out of town in a few days, I theorized; why not enjoying him while he's here? Last night had been wild and while obviously there'd be no relationship between us, I wanted to see how much wilder it could get.

"I was hoping: you," he smirked.

"That sounds good. It'll give my hole time to recover. Just."

"I like the way you talk, Seb," he replied. "I wish I was in you right now."

"See you here at nine?" I asked.

"No dinner?"

"We can order some here when we're done," I suggested. We'd probably exhausted all decent topics of conversation in the pub last night, anyway. What was the point in going for dinner?

"Good idea. See you at nine," he said, grabbing his jacket and briefcase. "And I meant what I said about room service."

After he was gone, I left without ordering anything. I didn't want to come across like some twink rent boy who'd spread his hole for a wealthy businessman. I'd get my own breakfast; we were both adults here, not clients or customers. I returned to Harry Martyn's hotel at nine p.m. Like we'd arranged. It was a Saturday night and since Harry had no work the next day, he'd obviously decided to cut loose and relax. As soon as we got in, I could smell the whisky on his breath. We got down to business right away and within ten minutes, I was flat on my back as he pounded me vigorously.

"Ah, yeah, that's it," I encouraged him, reveling in the fullness and the force of his fucking.

"Yeah, you like that?"

"Fuck, yes."

"That's right," he hissed. "Who's your daddy?"

I grunted as he buried himself fully in me, but didn't answer. The guy knew my dad, so any reference to any of that "who's your daddy" shit was just downright fucking weird. I didn't say anything and I think he got the hint. We kept the rest of the fuck going without any more wordplay, beyond the usual spurring on and gasps. I jerked myself off and it hit his stomach and my chest; this time, Harry came in the rubber inside me and tossed it in the trash can when we he'd finished with it. We lay, sweat-soaked and panting, on his massive king sized bed. The kind of unfathomably comfortable ones that only hotels seem to have.

I firmed up again soon, as did Harry and we sixty-nined, blew and fingered each other to orgasm. After that, things took a bit of a turn. Harry got up, checked his phone and responded to a message, before walking over to his desk and removing a bag of cocaine from his briefcase. He started cutting it into lines on the table and glanced over at me: "Want some?" he asked, casually snorting a line.

"No, man, I'm good right now -- thanks."

I'm not a big drugs prude, but I'm not a fan either. A couple of spliffs, at a party, maybe. But lines of coke in a hotel room with just two other people wasn't my scene. It made me a bit uncomfortable, though I tried to rein it in; not being judgmental was one of the few personality traits I genuinely prided myself on. 

Harry came back to bed and rolled on his side to look at me -- tiny flecks of white powder around his nostril. "Have you ever done a threesome?" he asked, intently.

"No," I replied, keeping my voice devoid of sentiment about threesomes. I probably would have, under the right circumstances. 

Harry's big hand -- the hand that had brought me so much pleasure over the last twenty-four hours -- trailed down to my stomach. He appreciated the physique; I could feel it in the way he moved. Slowly, caressingly, sensually. "Would you like to?"

"With the right guys and if everyone involved was single, yeah. Why not."

"Good. I just invited a buddy of mine to come over. You'll like him. He's quite attractive, but gives great head."

My head raised up off the pillow. "You've invited him here?"

"Yeah," Harry said nonchalantly, rolling away from me to check his phone.

"What the hell, dude? What if I'd said no?" I realized as soon as I said that, that it implied I was therefore actually saying 'yes' now.

"You're a nineteen year-old rugby player, who fucked better than a porn star last night, Seb. You weren't going to say no to a little fun."

I definitely didn't want to seem like a prude, but railroading someone into a situation they're not comfortable with was always something that I'd disliked. "You should have asked," I snapped. "You didn't know what I'd say. And he's actually on his way now?"

"He'll be here in five minutes. At the most. Relax. Honestly. It'll be fun. Trust me!"

He reached for my dick and began to massage it to fullness again. I lay back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. I tried to force myself to do what he'd said and relax, but I was still pretty pissed off. Harry then lowered his mouth down onto my shaft and began to work on it. There was a knock at the door and he got up, naked and with a semi, to get it. I found myself thinking: what if someone saw him in the corridor. There was an absurdly low possibility of that though, given both the time and the angle the door was at. Why was I thinking of this? Of the mathematics of social probability? When I was lying, naked and hard, on a bed, about to be involved, apparently, in my first threeway? Why wasn't I excited?

I stood up to greet Harry's guest -- cock pointing directly at him, cool sweat still drying on my body. The guy was about six foot, slim, early thirties I reckoned, with an intelligent face, combed chestnut hair and a shy smile. He was actually quite handsome, in a retro 1930s' sort of way. What must he have thought when he rounded into the room to see a 6'4 blond guy with tousled hair and a boner? I guess since he'd come to fuck me and Harry, he probably wasn't too surprised, actually. Still, for some bizarre reason, I couldn't seem to let go of my manners and I extended my hand to him. He shook it, clearly a little taken aback and even, I think, touched, by my adherence to the courtesies. 

"Seb," I said, with a firm shake and a polite smile. "Good to meet you."

"Alistair Irwin," he replied. "You're beautiful."

I felt myself flush. The guy was obviously a bit of an innocent, despite the situation he'd willingly and easily put himself in. He looked abashed standing in front of me, as if he wasn't sure he was good enough. I found myself, for one brief idiotic second, remembering Rory's insecurities, before swiftly reminding myself that Rory would happily crawl on his knees all the way to Jerusalem before he ever let himself be roped into a situation like this.

Looking at Alistair Irwin's hopeful and slightly nervous face, I knew instinctively that I couldn't back out now, otherwise this guy would think it was because he was too ugly to fuck. Was that possibly the stupidest of all reasons to stay there? Someone's ego? Actually, even now, I don't think it was. I still don't think it was wrong to stay -- fucked up as that may sound. In its own way, it would have been cruel and callow to leave. I just wish I hadn't been put in the situation, at all.

"How do you know Harry?" I asked, trying to break the tension. Before cursing myself for asking a question that could only illicit an embarrassing answer given the circumstances.

"I used to fuck him when he was married to his wife," Harry sneered. It was the first sign of outright cruelty I'd seen him and he grabbed a rapidly-blushing Alistair's ass. "Didn't I?"

Harry nodded and looked at me, apologetically. "I used to be... married... to... uhm..."

"Hey, that's cool," I smiled, reassuringly. "You're divorced now?"

"Yes," he nodded, grateful to me for seeming so unfazed.

"Have some coke," Harry ordered.

Alistair looked at me and saw from my face, I suppose, that I didn't like the idea. "Later," he demurred. "If that's okay? Eh, shall we..."

I walked over and kissed him full on the mouth. Anything, I thought, to stop the uncomfortable atmosphere in the room and make him relax. I felt Alistair's surprise as I launched myself on him and his pleasure at being so obviously desired. He reached down and began stroking my dick. He was painfully hard through his pants. I pulled his sweater off him and ripped his shirt open. I threw them onto the couch behind us and began unbuckling his pants. I heard Harry chuckle at what he was seeing. Alistair and I broke the kiss to give Alistair time to strip in full. Once he was naked, he dropped to his knees, with a hungry look on his face. He began giving me head and, true to Harry's promise, Alistair was amazing at it. His mouth was wet, his tongue on constant patrol and his gag reflex was nearly non-existent. As I submitted myself to his expect ministrations, Harry came up behind me, knelt down and parted my ass cheeks. He began rimming me and for a few moments I stood in the middle of a London hotel room, having both ends of me attended to. 

We moved onto the bed and I kissed Alistair as we went. I could tell he wasn't used to being kissed very much, because he was pretty terrible at it. Stabbing his tongue in and out of my mouth. It was surprising, given how great he'd been at oral sex, but it occurred to me that whatever way Alistair Irwin's life had gone, he was apparently much more used to sucking a guy's dick than being kissed by a man he cared for. The thought made me momentarily sad. This poor guy. He got on his hands and knees and turned to look at Harry and I.




Rory and Sebastian Ch. 19



-- With great apologies for the delay and thanks for all the comments --

"Sebastian?"

"I think so, Rory," I laughed. Half-laughed, I guess. Rory was staring at me in total shock and bewilderment, as if he'd somehow fallen asleep on his own life and woken up in a scene he didn't recognize. 

His silence lasted for another few seconds and his eyes were almost dancing with surprise. Big brown eyes, just like I remembered but which no memory, and no photograph, could ever quite prepare you for seeing again in the flesh. 

"Hi!" he finally said, with a laugh of his own. His own half-laugh.

"Hi," I replied and went into hug him. As my arms circle half-way between his waist and his torso, I felt him go rigid, although he returned the hug. Nerves at seeing me? Surprise at the hug? Concerns about his weight? "I was just thinking about you."

Well, that was probably the single most uncool thing I could have said.

"What are you doing here?" Rory asked. "Why are you in Edinburgh?"

"Why are you?" I rebutted.

"Mummy's come up to visit me; we're staying in that hotel," he said, pointing to the Balmoral behind us. He was still smiling, hesitantly. Those eyes. "Why are you here?"

"I'm up with a friend from college," I replied. I saw him smile that I still used the American word rather than the English. "He's hungover, so I came out to see the sights on my own. And then I ran into you. Talk about seeing history."

I meant it as a joke, but there was a slightly stung look that flashed across Rory's face, just for a second. I felt bad and hastened to correct myself, but didn't. After all, it had been his decision that we were history. 

I felt mean-spirited thinking that.

"I'm just looking round for somewhere to get a cup of coffee," I explained, by way of breaking the tension.

"Do you ...?"

He was going to invite me to come with him. I knew it. I could recognize instinctively the tone of his voice when he wanted to invite someone somewhere but was unsure they'd said yes. 

"Yes?" I prompted.

"We could grab coffee at the hotel? It's right over there."

"Yeah, that'd be awesome," I said, with my brightest, most reassuring, most forced smile. This was already running the risk of becoming awkward and I didn't know how or why; all I knew was that I couldn't leave him. This was bad. All of it, everything I'd felt for him, was rushing back very, very quickly.

The hotel itself reeked of a kind of old world opulence, like a modernized version of the Edwardians. It was nice; beautiful even. Rory has always possessed a kind of haze of old-world charm and the environs suited him. It was as if he belonged in rooms like this -- in cavernous reception rooms with roaring fireplaces. I don't know if I was entirely aware of it at the time, but it somehow made him stand out in even greater focus from men like Harry Martyn and even Dan. Dan, who I'd only ever seen in a student house, a dingy bar or a cheap restaurant; what chance did he, or anyone have for that matter, in a game of comparisons to Rory as he sat, perfectly dressed, slightly too thin, his eyes sparkling in his face and looking, for all the world, like a prince, a younger son of a royal family, ensconced in a world of understated splendor and sophistication? As he sat down in one of the chairs across a small table and turned to look at me, I was struck again by his unique and inimitable grace. A kind of unconscious charm of his movements, which I always associate with how I felt about him the day I first properly "noticed" him -- fixing his tie in the wind above the sports fields at school.

"Is this alright?" he asked, in the polished tones I'd half-forgotten. "We can go somewhere else if you like?"

"No, it's beautiful, Rory," I smiled. Saying his name sounded strange, like something from long ago. It was almost taboo to say it and I felt bizarre, but not uncomfortable, sitting so close to him after so long apart.

"I'm so glad you like it," he replied. 

The waiter came over and we ordered a coffee for me and tea for him. I ordered a scone as well, to tide me over. He ordered nothing and my thoughts must have shown on my face, because he smiled knowingly and said, "I had lunch earlier," as the waiter left.

"How are your family?"

"Good," I answered truthfully. "Very good, actually. Evan and Sarah are still together."

"That's lovely. They're so well-suited to each other."

For the first time, a slight stab of annoyance struck me. For over a year I had occasionally wondered at Rory's rationale in ending our relationship. At times, I could certainly understand why he did, but at others I was furious with him -- hurt and/or confused that he had made no gesture, no display of kindness in the eighteen months since we'd last been together. His silence, his deafening silence, had often seemed to be a subtle and vindictive form of cruelty. A vicious form of long-term attrition, telling me that what we had experienced together had still not been enough to cancel out one moment of drunken, and possibly non-consensual, stupidity on my part. 

"Yeah, they are," I said, a trifle tersely. I saw him purse his lips slightly, with a touch more emphasis on the center of his bottom lip. He had noticed my reaction -- of course he did, he always noticed. His skill at noticing everything around him and then choosing what to acknowledge had been one of the most interesting, and often frustrating, features of his personality. 

Instantly, he brightened to ease the tension. "And how's London?"

"Great. The course is a lot of work, but I really like the course and I've made a good group of friends."

"Amazing. Are you living out this year?"

"Yeah. Most people do in London. What about you?"

"No, there's room in our college halls for second years if they want it and it's so much less hassle, so most of my friends did that. I saw on Facebook that you kept up rugby?"

I saw it shoot through his eyes -- the crashing realization that he'd just admitted to keeping tabs on me via Facebook. I leaned back in my seat and smirked, "Did you?"

He held my eye contact, smiled as he bowed to defeat and rolled his eyes. "There's a newsfeed, Sebastian."

"Uh-huh," I said, mockingly. 

"You're so irritating."

"Stop stalking me on Facebook if I'm such an irritation."

"Shut up."

The waiter returned with our order and we stayed silent while he deposited everything on the table. We both thanked him and he left. "What happened to your braces?" I asked, once we were alone together again.

"I got them off last week," he said. "How did you even know about those?"

"You didn't de-tag some of the photos quickly enough, Ror." 

I'd just admitted to stalking him too and I'd admitted it tactically. He smiled appreciatively, in a pleased and bashful sort of way and then he cast his eyes downwards in gentle embarrassment and my heart actually felt for a second like it contracted. I was desperately in love with this guy and had never, ever stopped.

"I very nearly called you after I got them, you know."

"Why didn't you?"

"Well, you wouldn't have been able to understand me for the first few days," he said, making light of it. "I sounded like I'd swallowed my own tongue. It was so sore, Sebastian. And then, I don't know, I suppose it would have been a bit weird or silly to contact you after so long about something like that, wouldn't it?"

"No."

*

The rest of the coffee passed in a whirl of pleasantries -- families, friends from school (he was still in touch with Virginia and Claudia, intermittently with Caroline, but they didn't see much of Judith anymore, at all), our courses, our summers, respective life in Saint Andrew's and London, and an upcoming wedding at home in Kent which, it turned out, we were both invited to. That helped ease the tension of suggesting a follow-up meeting, because we were now going to meet again anyway regardless. I hadn't even known his family knew the Mortimers, but apparently his mother was childhood best friends with the bride's mother. As our re-union drew to a close, I made the mistake of going to the bathroom, at which point he settled the bill, leaving me annoyed since I'd wanted to do that. By the time I emerged back onto the streets of Edinburgh, it was already dark and when I glanced down at my phone, I realized that I had four missed calls and three texts from Peter. 

"This was such a pleasant surprise," Rory said, on the steps of the hotel.

"It was great, Rory. Really great." I hugged him and kissed him on the cheek; my arms wrapped tightly around his waist and I held him there, for a just few seconds longer than was necessary. "I'll see you at home."

"Yes," he smiled. "Goodbye."

I turned to go and when I looked back to glance over my shoulder, he was still standing there watching me. I winked back and he rolled his eyes, before turning back into the hotel and vanishing from sight. 

*

"Where were you?" Pete asked, the second I walked in through the door to his apartment. "I've been calling you all afternoon!"

"Sorry, dude, I ran into an old friend from school and lost track of time. How's your hangover?"

"Not great," Peter groused, walking into his kitchen and flicking on the kettle to make some more coffee for himself. "Who'd you run into? You could at least have texted."

"I know, I'm sorry. I ran into Rory."

Peter turned quickly to look at me. "Rory, as in Rory-Rory? Your ex-boyfriend Rory?"

"Yep," I laughed. "We grabbed a coffee at the Balmoral. Fanc-y!"

"And you just randomly managed to run into him today?" Peter asked, disbelievingly.

"Eh, yeah. We haven't really spoken in months, so it's not like it was planned. It's not like it even could have been."

"Right."

"Are you OK?"

"What about Dan?" Pete asked with, honestly, a lot more aggression than was warranted.

"What about him?"

"Seriously?"

"It's not like Rory and I met up for coffee and a fuck, Pete!"

"Well, that's not like you."

"Wow!"

"Sorry, Seb, but Dan really likes you and it seems a bit of a coincidence that we come all the way up to Edinburgh and you manage to meet up with the guy who broke your heart and spend the whole afternoon with him."

I didn't like this. "First of all, Pete, it was a coincidence. You can believe me or not believe me if you like, but I think you know I wouldn't lie to you if I had pre-arranged to meet him. And if I had made plans to meet Rory in secret, wouldn't it have been a dumb idea not to tell you I'd be out all afternoon in case you came looking for me? Thirdly, I like Dan too and it's not as if Rory and I discussed getting back together and even if we did, Daniel and I aren't official. Not even anything like that."

"He really likes you," Pete said, coldly, "and he's my friend."

"I know that," I groaned. "I know that, Pete. And I will tell him about this, but it wasn't anything shady or pre-arranged, OK? So get off my back."

He had the grace to look slightly abashed, but he hadn't backed down totally; I could tell that. "OK," he said, after a moment's silence. "That's fair. Just don't do anything to hurt Dan. Do you want some coffee?"

*

It was my Irish flatmate Helen who proved to be much more help than Pete when it came to what I felt about Daniel and Rory. The truth of it all was that from the moment I'd realized how strong my feelings still were for Rory, I'd unconsciously made the decision that I would have to end things with Daniel. By the end of my first week back in London after reading week that feeling had moved into my conscious and Helen's advice played a big part in that. Part of the decision, undoubtedly and unpleasantly if I'm completely honest, was pragmatic and had nothing to do with Daniel. If Rory thought for even a single tiny solitary second that there was somebody else on the horizon at the same time as thoughts of him and I, please please please!, getting back together were hopefully raised, then he'd never forgive me. But Helen and I talked it out and we both realized that even if Rory and I never got back together or approached the issue, he was now very much in my head again. In those circumstances, it was unfair to Daniel and unhelpful to me to carry on with a course of dating that very soon might result in a relationship. As long as I felt this way about Rory Masterton again, it was unfair to string Daniel along. 

On Saturday night, I invited Daniel over and told him everything, as tactfully as I could. He was upset, I could tell, but he wasn't as devastated as my ego or Peter's passive aggressive anger had predicted. He said he understood and that he was sorry things couldn't go further with us. He teared up a bit at one point, which made me feel absolutely awful, but as we hugged on goodbye he told me he appreciated my honesty. I've always wondered if that were true, because within a couple of weeks Dan's behavior towards me when we did encounter one another socially went from friendly to awkward to downright rude. Eventually, his go-to position when it came to seeing me was a huffy silence. I suppose a lot of people's feelings change when they've had time to adjust and think it over. In hindsight, Pete's fears that Daniel would be hurt by my decision not to pursue things with him were probably right, but even knowing all that, it doesn't honestly and fairly seem like there was anything else I could have legitimately done in that situation. 

Pete remained a bit pissed at me for a couple of weeks and didn't like hearing Rory's name being mentioned round the house, particularly by Helen who seemed thrilled at the prospect of vicariously living through the reuniting of a high school romance. But by the time I went back to Kent for Christmas, he'd thawed out and wished me all the best as I left. Part of me had wanted to sit down and explain to him about the me-Rory-Dan situation, but another part just felt annoyed at him; I've never liked it when people decide to adopt other people's quarrels as their own and given the way I'd seen him break-up with his ex-girlfriends in our first year, I found it a bit rich to find him pontificating on it, just because he was friends with Daniel and didn't know Rory at all. Maybe that makes me sound like an asshole, but I hope it doesn't. This was about me and Rory, not Peter, Helen or Daniel.

*

--From Rory's POV--

Sylvia Mortimer's wedding to Ross Anderson was beautiful. Winter weddings always carry with them the implicit possibly of the horror word "wonderland," in which everything looks like Narnia regurgitated onto it. However, Ross and Sylvia had managed to do everything so tastefully and to totally avoid a theme or the appearance of a wonderland. It seemed some how much more organic and much more attune to their tastes as a couple. It really was rather lovely. They had it a castle sprawling on a vast estate in the countryside about an hour from where my family lived at the time. I think, although I could be wrong, that the castle had about thirty or forty bedrooms and that quite a few of the guests booked the rooms to stay there after the party. The whole day I hadn't seen much of Sebastian, but he looked heart-stoppingly handsome in his grey suit. The blond hair of his was newly-cut and just the right side of tousled to seem interesting without appearing untidy. But there were so many people there that we didn't really get a chance to speak and we weren't seated at the same table. Nor can the sight of my brother Dermot glowering at Sebastian from behind me have exactly encouraged Sebastian to come over and start a conversation. I'd texted him the day before, however, to let him know that we were staying over; he'd replied to say that his family too had not liked the idea of travelling back so late at night or taxiing and they had decided to stay. 

I was sitting at the dressing table in my room. A room of tweeds and reds and golds. Mismatched in the way that only the really old houses are. I love the aesthetic; I always have. It's my favourite. The only light came from the bedside lamp. I had removed my tie and jacket and was sitting in my shirt, top two buttons undone, my black trousers, socks and shoes. A gale was blowing outside and there was a horrible fusion of snow and sleet falling against my window. I stared into my own reflection and then heard a soft knock on my door. I turned my head in that direction and I came distinctly remember feeling a total lack of surprise, as if I knew he'd come. 

I opened the door and he was standing in the dimly lit corridor, wearing a shirt, tie and grey trousers. My room was at the end of a hallway, just round a slight corner in the wall. The corridors sounded quiet, apart from the faint sound of the party still going on at the other end of the castle. 

"Hey," he said.

"Hi," I answered. I stepped back, opening the door farther and standing aside to let him come in. He stood behind me as I closed the door with a gentle click, wondering in my head at how smooth the old mahogany door handle felt in my hand. My back was still to him.

"I don't really know why I'm here," he said from behind me. I thought I detected a trace of nerves there. I think I am one of the few people who got to see him, or make him, nervous.

I turned to look at him, my back close to, but not quite up against, the door.

"You looked lovely in your suit," I said lamely. It was the only thing I could think of to say. I always fell back on manners or platitudes when I didn't know what to say or to do.

He leaned in quickly, almost lunged, and kissed me. Like the knock on the door, when the kiss happened I wasn't surprised. My hands hesitated for a second and then pressed up against his chest and then around his neck. Our tongues met as our mouths opened and it felt as if everything that had happened, all the time that had gone by, didn't matter. I knew, even in the haze, that this did not mean that they were officially back together and that a talk, some kind of reckoning and honest conversation, would be needed before that could happen. Yet even with that, I didn't care at that moment. 

The kiss rapidly spiraled into something hungrier and more urgent. I felt myself get hard very quickly. I felt embarrassed and tried to arch the lower half of my body away from his so he couldn't tell, but he had already felt it and assertively put his right hand on the lower part of my back, dragging me back in towards him. I felt him start to respond and we began pacing over towards the bed, without breaking contact. He started undoing my shirt and I started undoing his. He broke off the kiss and held my face: "Do you want this?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered, without a second's hesitation. 

We reached the edge of the bed and I lowered myself back onto it. We were kissing again and he came with me. I could feel his erection throbbing through his trousers. It was so hard that it must have been painful. I was tugging his shirt off down his arms and he broke the kiss, arching back to make it easier. Even in the dim light and the awkward angle, I could see the change in his body. If Sebastian had been toned before, the only way to describe him now was positively ripped. Every inch of him pulsated with a kind of impossibly vital health; it was all muscular. I gasped slightly in lust and memory, which distracted me as he unbuttoned my shirt. I couldn't say that I was totally comfortable with my body, but I was much, much better than I had been before and I knew that when sex was happening nudity was often required. I had started eating better and working out more, so when Sebastian managed to fumble my shirt off, I didn't feel too panicked. Not thrilled, but not panicked either.

He pinned my arms down and stared at my naked torso. "Thank God this is back," he said, before diving down to give me an enormous hicky on my collar bone. We used to it all the time in bed and he knew I loved it. I arched in towards him and felt him struggling to undo his belt. As he did that, I stripped myself -- kicking off my shoes, nudging him off me to peel off my socks, stepping out of my trousers. By the time I was finished, he was too and he pulled me back in towards him. We were naked in each other's arms again and I felt our dicks slide together in their mutual precum. It felt raw and perfectly right.




Rory and Sebastian Ch. 19



"Do you have lube?" he asked, as he shuffled me up the bed and spread my legs.

"No," I answered. "I didn't think I'd need it here."

By way of an answer, Sebastian flung my legs up, dragged my ass down towards him and dove into my ass, rimming me and spitting on me as he went. He was there for about ten minutes and I could feel his tongue working further and further into me as I thrashed against the pillows and tried to keep my voice down. Once he felt I was sufficiently lubed up, he appeared at my face, with that big cock of his pointing at my mouth.

"Suck my dick," he commanded and I obeyed.

As I bobbed up and down, with his hand on the back of my head, he waited only as long as it took me to get him good and wet. I closed my eyes as I did it and remembered how much I loved giving him head and of feeling this close to him. 

He positioned his cock at the entrance to my hole and started to slowly inch his way in. I inhaled slightly with the shock and the pain, but inch by inch he worked his way back into me until he was bottomed out. There were a couple of "Fuck, you're tight,"s and "I've missed this," as he went.

Slowly, he began to fuck me, staring down into my eyes as he did so. "Have there been others since me?" he asked, as he pulled out and slid back in.

I nodded; there had. Not many and goodness knows there were bound to have been more for him, but there was no point in lying.

"You're still the best I ever had," he said, leaning down to whisper in my ear.

I felt something in my shatter, a pretence at maintaining distance I suppose, when he said that and I grabbed his face. "Sebastian, there's never really anyone else but you who makes me feel like this."

"Good. Because I'm still fucking desperately in love with."

After that, the sex became a lot more energetic. My legs were over his shoulders at one point and then he pulled out, turned me over, put me on all fours and took me hard and fast on the bed, giving me a reach around as he did it. I came about five minutes later and a few minutes later, he suddenly slowed down and I heard his voice -- nervous again, as if he'd just realized something. "I'm not wearing a condom," he said. I hadn't even thought of it, either. "But I never barebacked with anyone but you and I've been tested. Are we okay to... or should I...?"

"Come inside me," I said. 

"Thank fuck." He picked up speed and about a minute later I felt him empty an almighty amount of cum inside me. It felt scalding hot and as he pulled slowly out of me, I felt some of it trail out with him.

We lay there together, not quite cuddling, as the sweat cooled on our bodies. Thank goodness the rooms were ridiculously over-heated. Earlier I'd cursed it as being only marginally hotter than the Sun. After a few minutes, Sebastian stood up and got out of bed: "I suppose I should go back to my room, in case someone comes in the morning."

I nodded, still worn out. "Yeah."

He laughed at the sight of our clothes flung all over the bedroom. "Well, we've still got it, Rory."

As he got changed, he kept looking at me. I sat him and drew my knees towards him, staring at him. Drinking him in. The rugged, reassuring sight of him. There was no way, I knew, that he couldn't nurse a tiny piece of resentment against me for never contacting him, but I hadn't realized, or wanted to realize, how much I... I don't know. I don't know what it was. Love, I suppose. He leaned down and kissed me in the small of the neck.

"I meant to talk," he said, with a shaky grin. "Not... I came here to talk."

"I suppose we should," I said.

"You do?" he asked. And he exhaled visibly, with a big smile. Poor Sebastian hadn't been sure. Poor darling. I wanted to touch him, but with the urgency of lust gone, I felt a tiny bit more awkward around.

"Yes. We should. We should talk. I could meet you tomorrow night, or tonight, technically, back home?"

"Pick you up at eight?"

"Perfect."

He smiled and got up. Just before he turned the door-handle, he looked at me. Paused. Bit his lip. And then decided to press ahead with whatever he was thinking about saying: "Rory, just to be clear so that I don't go out of my mind between now and eight o'clock -- you do actually think we should get back together, don't you? You are thinking about it, right? The talk's about that. Not about just being friends, right?"

"Yes. It's logistics, Sebastian," I smiled.

He smiled and crossed over and kissed me, on the lips this time. "I'm so happy."

He smiled again at the door, then left. I lay back on the pillows, before getting up to have a bath (the room had no shower) and think about tonight. I hadn't intended to get back together with him, at least not consciously, but I knew now that I wanted to find a way to be together again, to talk about everything that needed talked about and to be his again. I stared back in the dressing table mirror, at the little marks he'd made on me during sex. I was his, I thought. I always had been, in a strange way. I felt only a little apprehensive about the talk and I wanted him back. With a little distance and the pain of missing each other, I knew we could make it work this time. I just had to make sure that now was the right time to start everything back up again. 

I pressed the hicky and thought, "Welcome back, Sebastian."



Rory and Sebastian Ch. 20



Author's Note: With apologies for the delay, there will not be that long a gap again and to confirm, I know some readers think that this story has "dragged on", but the intention behind this story is to look at a relationship that evolves and changes over many years! Thank you for all your comments.



== From Sebastian's POV ==

Rory stepped into my car as a light drizzle of rain fell over the driveway leading up to his house. He was wearing a gray cashmere roundneck and his hair held a slight residue of the mist-like rain from outside. He gave a sigh of theatrical exhaustion as he sat in the passenger seat, and leant over to kiss me, peck me, very lightly on the lips. It was nice, it felt reassuring, but then that was probably why he had done it - to calm me down. When you love someone like that, I think you get into a weird kind of emotional infinity symbol of knowing how well they know you and they know you know that they know... I don't know. I'm rambling. Anyway!

"Hey," he said, breathlessly, after the kiss. He had dashed from the house without a coat or umbrella. Clearly he assumed we were staying in the car to talk, which was fine with me. There was more privacy that way, in case anyone yelled, cried or, like last night, ended up inside each other.

"Hey," I answered, turning the key. "Who'd you tell your parents you were going out with tonight?"

"You," he answered. "Should I have lied?"

"You told them it was me?" I asked, half-looking at him but keeping my eyes on the dark country road as I turned out of his driveway. "Rory!"

"What?"

"I assumed you'd lie to avoid questions. I thought you'd tell them you were hanging out with Robbie or Virginia, not me! Jesus, Rory, if I'd known you were going to tell the truth I'd've called to the door! Now I look like a d-bag who waits in the driveway and doesn't call up to the door to say hello to your parents. Fuck!"

"Sebastian, they know you. And we're not back together, yet, so... calm down," he smiled, there was an incipit smile in everything he was saying. I hadn't forgotten he could be like this, but I'd forgotten what it was like when he did it; how it made me feel. He had a rare kind of charming condescension, an endearing emotional snobbery, something that arose through an innate and very loveable superiority, when he felt calm, certain and in control. He used it with particular effect when he had to stay calm for both of us. I wondered if he could sense how nervous I was. 

It had all happened so quickly, from the accidental meeting in Edinburgh to the totally unexpected sex at the wedding the night before. And now, here I was; so very close to what I had wanted on some level for nearly two years. Having suppressed the desire to be with Rory Masterton for the best part of a year, it had all come flooding back to me and a nervous ticking metronome of panic was clicking away in my head at the thought that, having come so close and reawakened all those old feelings for him, for us, it wouldn't happen. What was he going to say if, or rather, when, I told him about how promiscuous I had been during our separation? Morally, it wasn't as if I had done anything wrong. We had been broken up for a long time when I first fucked somebody else and none of them had even remotely come close to usurping Rory's place in my heart. But we were at different universities now, separated more or less by the full breadth of the United Kingdom, and if Rory thought sleeping around was a compulsion, a habit that couldn't be broken, a cause for mistrust... It wasn't. I knew it wasn't. Zac Efron could have lubed up and begged for it and I'd've shrugged him off if Rory was free for so much as an afternoon coffee, but still, the doubt remained that Rory would know know that. Or not believe it.

"What's wrong?" he asked from the gloom of the car. "You're not as loquacious as usual."

"I'm shitting myself, Rory."

"Aren't you seductive?"

"Seriously. You've no idea how nervous I am. Lame, right?"

"Adorable, actually. Turn left here."

"Isn't straight on quicker?"

"To where?"

"To the grove."

He shrugged, "The left's a better road."

"Maybe twist and turns just make the final destination feel like more of an accomplishment," I said, flashing a grin. He rolled his eyes and laughed, before staring out the window. 

"Isn't it a horrible night? Weather-wise, I mean."

"It's December," I said. "That sweater looks really good on you."

"Thank you."

"It'd look better off, though."

"Haha. You left a mark on me, you know, from last night."

"Well, that's just for all those dudes up at Saint Andrew's to know that you're mine now. Again. I dunno."

I pulled into the grove, a parking lot that on a clear day had a beautiful view over the green trees of the Weald, but tonight it could have been looking into a blackhole once I switched the headlights off. Rory instinctively flicked the car locks on, a tribute to the traumatization he suffered everytime he was forced to watch a slasher movie. He looked over at me and smiled, "Slasher movies," he explained. 

I nodded, "I know, Rory."

"So..." he said, angling towards me and unclicking his seat belt. He brought his right leg up to perch slightly on the chair and he stared at me. In the half-light being given off from my radio, his eyes swam with questions and the cheekbones of just-the-littlest-bit-too-thin face were beautifully lit up. Objectively, I knew Rory was never the most perfectly handsome guy in the world, but he had a way with him, maybe only I saw it, maybe only loves see it, I don't know, but he really could take my breath away. 

I turned to face him and sighed, "Yeah."

"We have a lot to talk about."

"I love you," I said. "I just wanted to get that out there. You've no idea how nervous and happy and excited and shitting myself with fear I've been since last night, Rory. I can't... I know we have a lot to talk about, but I'm so completely in love with you that I will do anything that needs to be done to make this work and I don't want to play any games, because that's not us, it's not you and I. I just, before anything was said, I wanted to say that." I smiled at him and he kissed me, hard, impulsively and the gearstick certainly got in his way, but he did it and I kissed him back. It wasn't sexual, it was just, well, I'm honestly not entirely sure how to describe it. When he separated from it, the calm he'd been wearing since he got into the car was rattled a little.

"I love you, too, Sebastian. I do, honestly, I know that..." He stopped himself and took a breath. He bit the bottom of his lip slightly. "We need to be able to talk about things though.There are things to talk about." I nodded and he launched straight in with his first question, "The first thing being, I suppose, to ascertain how mad you are at me?"

"I'm not mad at you. Why would I be mad?"

"Don't do that. Don't let's ignore everything unpleasant now until six months down the line it becomes a huge thing that breaks us up a second time round. You know that you are mad at me on some level, you're bound to be angry. I got a little flash of it at the Balmoral when I brought up Evan and Sarah. And when you referred to me as a 'blast from the past.'"

Jesus, he didn't miss a thing.

"So," he continued, "talk to me. How angry are you? Say what you need to say."

I could hear the incipient nerves that he was trying so desperately and masterfully to control. To anyone else, he would have appeared unflappably serene, but I knew this performance was a bit like a swan in motion with its feet paddling frantically beneath the surface.

"There have been times I've been angry at you, yes, of course, but they're not enough to keep me from wanting you. Of course they aren't! But Rory, I guess the thing that's always half-bothered me - and I know it shouldn't, because the rest of the time I know the answer - but, why did you do it? Maybe why's not even the right word; maybe 'how' is. That night, that party, it wasn't, I mean, fuck, I'm not going to say it was assault, but it wasn't consensual. I could barely stand and the guy just launched himself at me and, okay, you're looking down, I can tell you don't like hearing about it or imagining it, and I get that: if someone had done it to you, the image of it in my head would've killed me, it would've made me so fucking angry. But, Rory, the difference is I wouldn't have broken up with you over it, not in a million fucking years. I would've gone after the guy and beat the shit out of him, and that's not bullshit machismo: I would've done it and you know I would have. I could barely fucking stand and he... I just don't understand how you weren't able to see it from my point of view, because it wasn't like I was trying to pretend that it wasn't an awful thing to have happened or that I didn't understand why you were upset. And when you slapped me, punched me, whatever you want to call it and then you were in my arms, sobbing, in my arms because of something I had done, Jesus, Rory, you've no idea what that was like. It was the single most awful moment of my life, it felt like I'd been punched right in the heart, and I was trying so hard over the next few days to get you back, to hold on to what we had, but I just feeling you slip away from me, completely... It was fucking awful. And Rory, I loved you! I loved you so much and we had been through so much. You were my boyfriend, the guy I loved totally, and you were my best friend, too. It just seemed like it was so easy for you, and I know," I held my hand up to stop up when he open his mouth to protest that point, "I know it wasn't so easy, but it was too easy for you. I couldn't have done what you did to us anymore than I could have walked to the moon. And then to cut me out completely... I just, fuck, I don't know. I don't know how you did it and part of me thinks, 'Shut your fat fucking mouth and don't ask any questions that'll stop him wanting to get back together with you again,' but the other part of me needs to know that you won't do it again ... I don't want to go through the rest of our relationship living with this fear that you could ditch me. That I'm an optional or an addition. I don't know." My voice quivered, broke with held-back tears, and I clenched my right fist and lightly thumped the steering wheel with it. "Fuck. This is..."

There was a long silence that was only broken when I said, "Will you please say something?" In response, he just shook his head and wiped his cheek. "Don't cry, Rory," I said, reaching over and taking his hand. "I'm not... I don't know where that came from. Don't cry."

"I'm fine. I'm dealing with trying to repress that for eighteen months, Sebastian, so give me a minute."

Another pregnant silence settled over the car, broken only by the rain as it evolved from a drizzle into a shower. The fingers of Rory's right hand were beating nervously against his leg, in an increasingly fast pace until they stopped and he lost the battle for self-control; a sob broke from his throat and his shoulders sagged. In a few minutes, the entire dynamic had changed and his calm, poised self-assurance had finally been irrecoverably shattered. 

"Oh, Rory, don't," I reached over to him and putting my arm around his shoulder, pulled him in towards me. I felt a second of hesitation and then he went with it, allowing himself to be awkwardly guided over towards me. Instinctively, without thinking about it, the first endearment of the evening slipped from my mouth, "Baby, shhh... come here." His face pressed into the crook of my neck and I could feel the tears on his cheek. "Baby... Rory. It's... I love you."

"I love you so much," he cried, softly. "I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything."

"I do and you know I do!"

He moved back to his seat and I rubbed his shoulder. 

"I'm not saying this to make you feel worse, sweetheart, but you were weird, uneasy, I guess, about us going away to different colleges beforehand and I've always been worried that you - I don't want to say 'used' - but that what happened at that party sort of gave you an excuse, a reason, a legitimization, whatever, to..."

Rory shook his head. "No, Sebastian, that's not what it was, at least not consciously. You're so much better looking than I am that I was worried that when you went to uni there'd be people throwing themselves at you, left, right and centre, but I knew I was just going to have to get used to that idea and to trust you. And I did. I do. But when that happened, that kiss, something just snapped inside of me and I can't fully explain what that was, although I suppose I should try to. Everything just went into a kind of slightly manic overdrive. I was in therapy then, remember, counselling for my stupid eating thing..."

"Rory, that's not stupid, by any stretch of the imagination..."

"Anyway, it was a good thing to go through, but when you're in it, it kicks a hornets' nest. It strings you out while you're looking for answers and that stringing out gives you less of an even keel. To extend and distend the metaphor." A ghost of smile played on his lips at his inarticulateness, but it faded quickly as he tried to explain why he had behaved that way, though, as I'd said, a part of me already knew why. "I was so fragile, panicky, I suppose, that when I heard about you and that guy I knew that if we went to university with that still hanging over us, it would drive me mad. And it would have, Sebastian. I can't tell you that it was the right thing to do morally, but pragmatically, on some level, I think it was. It was a reasonable reaction to a really shitty string of circumstances and I wish I could tell you that it hadn't been and I wish that I was half the boyfriend you are, were, will be, but I dropped the ball because I just didn't know how to play the game. I'm so sorry; you are..."

"What?" I prompted.

"The love of my life. You are. I think about you all the time and it took so much self-control not to text you or call you or Facebook you anytime I was down or upset or really happy. Even now, I just want your arms around me and to love you and make you happy. But I feel as if you need to shout at me, so that you can get these things off your chest?"

"I don't want to shout at you, Rory, but before we go any further you should know that there were other guys at college. Quite a few."

"I know that," he said.

"How? Because you always thought I was a bit of a slut? I guess I've no reason to get pissed off about that, now."

The rain was getting much heavier outside. Driving back would be a nightmare.

"I know because people talk," Rory said, gently, "and because I assumed you'd have... fun... at university, Sebastian, if you were single."

"It was just sex," I said. "No one could ever replace you. Last night, when you were lying in front of me, naked, Rory, I couldn't believe how happy I was that you were there. I realized how much I'd missed it, you, how stupid it was to think that anyone could ever replace you. You're my guy. You always have been. Evan used to say that he knew him and Sarah were meant to be together after they broke up when he figured that random hook-ups meant nothing to him anymore, that they left him feeling a bit sickened, and wanting nobody but her. I feel that way and then some, now. I don't think what I did was wrong and I don't hate the guys I did it with, but even during it, there were times I was comparing it to you and nobody ever rose to the challenge of even seeming like a disadvantaged competitor. I love sex, but I love it with you more than anyone else and I love you more than it, me and pretty much anything else combined. I need you to trust me, because I want this to work and I want it to work in a way that makes you as happy as I can. I don't want you sitting in Saint Andrew's worrying about some guy throwing himself on me in London because, believe me, no matter how drunk I get I won't let that happen again and it'll always be you that I want. If you are ever in my arms sobbing again, Rory, I swear to God that I want to be sure that I didn't cause it. I want to be the one that wipes away your tears, not fucking causes them. And that sounds like something from a Ryan Gosling movie, but I do mean it and you know that. Don't you?"

He nodded.

"Anyway," I prompted, "you said last night that there had been other guys that you'd..."

I paused, why couldn't I finish the sentence? I wasn't a prude, I had a very matter of fact attitude to sex, particularly with him. I'd joked about it right after he got into the car. I'd just told him about my own sex life. But the words stuck in my throat; on some instinctive level I just could not bring myself to say "had sex with" in relation to Rory and somebody else. 

"Had sex with?" He finished, interlacing his fingers with mine. I nodded tersely. "Yes," he said. "There were two. The first one was awful. It wasn't you and it just felt... awful. I hated it. The second guy, it happened more regularly, obviously. I was actually on top for most of that one, which..."

"For fuck's sake, Rory, I don't need the details."

"Sorry," he said, looking surprised by my tone. Which, I'll admit, was aggressive. Far more than I'd intended it to be, it just sort of fell out of me. I hated the idea of him with anyone else.

"I didn't give you details or numbers," I said, defensively.

"Well, that's probably because you couldn't count that high," Rory shot back. "Sorry, I shouldn't have said. Why are you being so weird?"

"The idea of you having sex with anyone else makes me really unhappy."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, the second guy, the regular one, wasn't a fuck-buddy or anything else. We were dating at the time."

I think he knew as soon as he'd said it that it had made things a million times worse.

"You dated somebody else?" I said, turning to look at him in full. He nodded and opened his mouth to say something, but I cut him off by repeating my original question.

"Yes."

"For how long?"

I didn't know what he was going to say but I certainly didn't expect the answer, "Four months." It was like being punched in the gut and I was very nearly shouting at him, even though I knew I was being totally hypocritical and very rude. 

"Four fucking months?! Rory, how is that even fucking possible? When I ran into you in Edinburgh - fuck it - when I ran into you in Edinburgh, I had kind of been seeing someone in London and when I say 'kind of being seeing someone', I mean that I had been occasionally going for dinner with him on a fairly fucking infrequent basis and that was the first time I'd been in any kind of regular even faintly romantic setting with anyone in the last eighteen months. I was still referring to you as someone I'd 'just broken up with' for about 9 months after you dumped me. And obviously my heart was never really in it with Daniel. The minute I saw you at the hotel, it was sayonara for him and me. I don't care if I never see him again and the second I got back to my friend's apartment in Edinburgh and he found out that it was you I'd ran into, even he knew that there was no way anyone could compete with you. That's the level that people at my college know about you, and they've never even met you! I never ... Rory, how could you date someone for four months? Date someone! What was the little fucker's name?"

"You said you didn't want details," he said, firmly. I started to falter, my tone began to lose its belligerence; it wasn't fair the way I was reacting, especially when he'd taken the news that I'd fucked all around me with such comparative grace and tact. But this was worse, much worse; the idea of him snuggling into someone the way he used to with me, kissing them, smiling for them like we used to smile at each other, sharing jokes. It was primal and caveman-like, sure, but I felt so possessive and upset by the thought of it. 




Rory and Sebastian Ch. 20



"Did you love him?"

"How could I love someone who wasn't you?" He said it with such sincerity and total simplicity that it stopped me in my tracks. "Please take my hand again," he asked, his voice rising and falling softly, undulating and pulling me in. I took his hand and he ran his free hand through the back of my hair. 

"You mustn't be sad," he intoned. He'd said that to me once before, long before, and the tone was the same. Polished, elegant, flickering tones and lyrical smoothness. "You mustn't be angry, my darling. It's happened now and it's in the past." 

I nodded. 

"Talk to me," he commanded, beautifully.

I shook my head and lifted my head, my heart skipped a beat and my hand tightened around his. We were together again, everything seemed to melt away for a moment. "I love you."

"I love you, too, very, very much," he answered.

"It's just very hard for me to think of you as somebody else's boyfriend. Excruciating, actually, Rory."

"And it makes me want to vomit with fear at how much sex you've had. But it's happened, Sebastian, and we've come out of it still in love with each other. Haven't we?"

"Of course we have. You're my guy," I repeated.

"And you're mine. All these things, they're not going to matter if we hold onto each other. If we talk about them now, we'll find a way through them. I don't want to be without you again and I never want to let you go."

I smiled and the rain outside poured down harder. We stayed there for another forty-five minutes, I think, maybe a little longer. I drove him home and we began to laugh a little, at some memories and some random observations from the wedding the night before, the past and the future colliding nicely with each other. He shut down the idea of us formally reconciling there and then in the car, because he didn't want to restart the relationship in the car where we had both made each other cry. I understood that and when I dropped him off home, he kissed me on the cheek. After he left and I drove back to my house, his smell lingered in the car and I already missed him. By the time I got back, I had a text from him: -

"I love you. See you tomorrow at 11 xx"

***

== From Rory's POV ==

The next day dawned cold and clear, with the air only just a little damp from the heavy rainfall the night before. It would lift as the day dragged on. The sky was clear. 

I can remember glancing out my bedroom window at half-past eight and feeling so completely elated. I can't explain why the news of Sebastian's other sexual partners didn't bother me too hysterically. In part, it was quite obviously because the gossip mill had given me a heads-up. I knew it was coming and I had mentally prepared myself by being firm with my own neuroses. After all, it had been my decision to end things and to maintain distance for so long. What had I expected: that he would remain a monk? Yes, of course, on some level there was a part of me that would have been overjoyed and immensely soothed if he could have told me honestly that there had been no-one else. Or, at the very least, only a very few. But I could be a realist when dragged to it. Sebastian was confident, handsome, a little cocky and very sexy. I hadn't asked him to take a vow of celibacy for me and I had no right to, either. When I sat down next to him in his car the night before, I had been holding myself in, steeling myself for the test of seeing how much damage had been done and how I would - or could - handle it. I had been surprised that it turned out that the real emotional damage, at least in the long-term, had been more on his end than mine. And he had taken the news of my relationship, that half-baked sequel to mine and his, far more painfully than I had taken the final confirmation of his active sex life.

I stepped into my shower and adjusted the nozzle as the too-hot water caused me to start. I began to lather up and congratulated myself on remaining so calm about his other partners, in what must have been a sure-fire testament to my personal growth. I knew that running into any of the people he'd gone to bed with would hurt, but when would that happen? And even if it did and it was uncomfortable, uncomfortable things are a part of life: was any of it really worth not being with him, again? Was anything? 

I thought of Alisdair, Sebastian's temporary replacement. A lovely guy. Clever, elegant, funny, confident, but not Sebastian. In my eyes, who could compete? Whatever happened next, whatever had happened since, from the moment I had collided with him in the streets outside my hotel in Edinburgh, I had known that there was no going back. I had known it ever since Alisdair and I had broken up, or perhaps it's safer to say drifted apart, at the end of the summer term. I must have. On paper, Alisdair was perfect. I stepped out of the shower and glanced at myself in the mirror - naked and slightly wrinkled from the water. I steeled myself to look, inhaled and mentally steading myself. The love bites were still on my torso and I ran my fingers over them lightly. Had I ever, realistically, believed that there was any way I'd be completely happy away from Sebastian?

After I was dressed - jeans, black sweater, newish shoes - I curled up in an armchair in my room and tried to read. There was already a text from Sebastian: "Can we meet at 10? xx"

"Sure," I responded, mentally panicking that he had changed his mind. "Why? xx" 

A few seconds later came the response: "I just can't wait to be next to you again. Spent 2 much time apart. I feel like this text merits an emoji?" 

I smiled and wrote back, "I'd rather kill myself than use an emoji. 10 works fine. I can't wait to see you again."

I can't remember what the book in my hands was. Some novel that on another day I might have enjoyed. I picked a wax jacket out of my wardrobe, scarf and gloves and walked down the stairs at 9.55. My brother Dermot, in the standard rugby sixth year boy's day-off ensemble of sweatpants and t-shirt, was in the sitting room just off from our entrance hall. The beautiful Christmas tree twinkled behind him, as he munched a bowl of cereal and watched TV.

"Where are you going?" he asked, barely flicking his eyes away from his crappy show.

"Out," I replied.

"No shit, Raz. Who with?"

"Pardon?"

Dermot and I are nobody's fool and we could read each other and the rest of our family very well. He turned to look at me, his face now glowering with undisguised and knowing antipathy. "Seriously? 'Pardon?' You clearly heard me."

I rolled my eyes. "Don't start, Dermot."

"He's a cunt."

He had swivelled in his armchair to engage fully in the conversation and I felt myself getting angry. The coat felt heavy over my arm. "He is not a cunt," I answered, firmly. "You liked him."

"Past being the operative tense."

"He didn't..."

"He broke your heart." 

"It was complicated."

"Nope," he said, angrily, "it wasn't. You love him. I get that, whatever. But he's still a cunt, Rory. And he'll do it again."

"You don't even know if we're getting back together!" I snapped. Why the fuck had I said that? It would just make telling him later even worse.

"I know you. When you didn't want to get back together with Sebastian Carson, you kept him as far away from you as you could. And since the wedding... For fuck's sake, Raz. You deserve better."

"I think I can be the judge of that, don't you?"

"Yeah, you're right," Dermot said, with tidal-wave levels of sarcasm. "I'm just your brother. Why the fuck should anything I say matter?"

"Well try fucking acting like it then!" I shouted. I swung the front door open, stepped out of the house and slammed the door behind me. Sebastian was getting out of his car in the driveway, determined to knock on the door this time. I had to give him points for manners and moxie.

"What's wrong?" he asked, instinctively.

"Nothing," I lied. "Where do you want to go?"

I was walking towards the car, but he crossed round and stood in front of me, taking my hand. "You're shaking."

"Nothing, I'm just... Stupid family stuff. Can we go?"

He glanced over at the house, then back to me: "Sure." 

To his credit, as we drove to the forest car park where, two years ago we'd gone walking and had rambunctious sex in the rain, Sebastian did not ask anymore questions. If there was anymore proof needed that he knew the argument had been about him, his silence was it. He was too good and too selflessly noble in a crisis to ask, "Was it about me?" in case it magnified the stress or put himself in the centre of attention. He kept up a steady stream of distracting chatter and it reminded me of how much I loved him: he wasn't an emotional voyeur. He knew when to get angry and when to get involved; he knew when to step back and let things slide. It's a rare skill. Like so many of his. 

We drove past Saint Eustace's Church and I blessed myself. A fond and teasing smile tugged at the corners of his lips, but he said nothing. We reached the car park and stepped out in the freezing December air. He reached into the back for his own coat, tugging it on over a thick cableknit sweater he was wearing. 

"So?" He said, falling into step next to me as the winter sun splintered into light around us. 

"So," I answered. An emotional call and response. I put my hand above my eyes to shield out some of the Sun's blinding glare. 

"Are you my boyfriend again?"

"Am I yours?" Mary, Mother of God, that was a pathetic response! How cringe-inducing. Why did I say that? Fix it! "Yes."

A smile broke across his face. Both our faces. And he leant in to kiss me. I wish I could tell you that after so long it had been a moment of sublime melodrama, of angst and tears and passion, like the time he flung me up against the tree in the driving rain the first time we kissed. Or his plate-smashing loving fury at his uncle's cottage. But it wasn't. After eighteen months, the finale had been transformed into an intermission and it all slotted very gently back into place. We fell back in to one another, into each other, into us, on a cold crisp English winter's day and as I felt our fingers interlock as he kissed me, all I could do was devoutly thank God for bringing him back to me.

***

Our mutual friend Robbie took the news of our reunion even better than I had expected. Although Robbie had been angry on my behalf during our break-up and, with Virginia, even helped determine it in their own way, he had remained close to Sebastian, Seb, as he and everyone bar myself, his mother and Virginia, called him. Robbie was, I think, lad enough to sympathise with Sebastian with the benefit of hindsight. He smiled when I told him and clapped me on the shoulder, "I think that's for the best," he grinned. "I always hoped you two'd work it out eventually."

Virginia was more sanguine, but hardly condemnatory. She raised the issue of the distance between Saint Andrew's and London, but, that aside, she simply asked how I felt about it, commented that she had felt sorry for Sebastian in her own way when we broke-up and said, with the kind of firm pragmatism I loved about her, that no-one knew a relationship better than the two people involved. Our "In a relationship with" moment on Facebook, a staple in the cyber age which Sebastian insisted upon honouring, drew dozens of likes but Dermot and I did not thaw to one another for at least a week and his non-like of the status was, to me, louder than the dozens who did click.

My brother point-blank refused to even acknowledge Sebastian's name in conversation, left the room when I told my parents we were dating again, went upstairs when he saw Sebastian pulling into our driveway and since I'd be damned before I'd climb down over this before he would, we were still technically on non-speakers with one another when we went to Midnight Mass with our family on Christmas Eve. 

As the candles flickered in the gloom of the chapel, the heavy scent of incense swirled around us and Father Bridgeway intoned the Mystery of Faith, my father glanced down the pew to throw a reproving glance at Dermot and I, who were sitting next to each other but yet to even look in one another's direction until the Sign of Peace forced us to shake hands half-way through the service. "God be with you," Dermot said, quietly.

"And also with you," I replied. 

He half-smiled awkwardly and hunched over. Then he nudged my shoulder, "Happy Christmas, Raz." 

"Happy Christmas, Dermot."

"Hail Mary, Full of Grace," sang Father Ridgway, "The Lord is with Thee! Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of Thy Womb, Jesus."

As we sang back, "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death," I saw my father nod with curt approval at the rapprochement between his two eldest.

***

===From Sebastian's POV===

Two days after Christmas, Evan sat opposite me at the local McDonald's, where we'd stopped en route home from the stables where our horses were stabled. I was starving and as we tucked into our food, he raised the subject of New Year's Eve. 

"Have you two any plans?"

I nodded and swallowed, "Yes and no. Dominic's having a big NYE part, but Rory got wind that Joshua Peterly is on the invite list and doesn't want to go."

"Is that the guy you used to hook-up with before him in school?"

"Yup - shithead," I took a drink. "I fucking hate the little dickhead, so I'm fine with staying in, too. All our friends are going to Dominic's and Rory thinks it'd be too aggro to start an alternative party all because of Joshua. So we're probably just going to stay in at ours. I've already said to Mom and Dad, and they're cool with it."

"That's probably for the best," Evan agreed. "I think Sarah and I are going to spend a few hours there, then head over to her sister's for about 10.30."

"Awesome."

"Mom was so pleased you and Rory were back together," Evan grinned. "You couldn't have asked for her to like him more, right?"

I smiled, "Yeah, that was really nice. Jenny, too. His brother wasn't exactly thrilled, you know."

"How many does he have?"

"Three," I answered, "but the eldest, after him, Dermot's, in Upper Sixth now and I think he knew a bit more about what went on when we broke-up. I like Dermot, so it's a bit annoying, but I guess he was there to see how upset Rory was..."

"I was there to see how upset you were and I don't dislike or blame Rory," my brother interjected, clearly a little riled on my behalf. "Why does this kid feel the need to get involved?"

"Same reason you feel the need to get involved now, Evan," I jibed.

"Fair," he laughed. "Have you two spoken about visiting each other or how you're going to make it work when you go back for next semester?"

I swirled a fry around in barbeque sauce. "We have. He's coming down to visit first and then we'll be together half-way through semester when we go to Leeds to visit Robbie for his birthday and then towards the end, I'll go stay with him for a few nights in Saint Andrew's. And Skype at least twice a week."

"Saint Andrew's is supposed to be really stunning," said Evan. "You'll love it. History geek."

"Yeah, the only thing is, and it sounds fucking dumb, but Rory's ex-boyfriend lives in the halls next to his up there and apparently they have a lot of mutual friends. I'm kind of worried of what it will be like to meet him, because it's more or less impossible that we won't if everyone's going out together. And I'm not sure how I feel about it. It makes me really... I dunno..."

"This is the guy he dated for a few weeks..."

"... Four months..."

"... when you two weren't together?"

"Yup. I asked Robbie. The guy's name was Alisdair, does Theology, just like Rory. Robbie never met him, but..."

"Seb, stop this. Don't let it get in your head as something to be paranoid about. He broke-up before you two started to get back together again, didn't he?"

"Yeah, but..."

"Then clearly it wasn't working for reasons totally unrelated to you! Do not make this a big thing. Especially since he has been nothing but very, very supportive and understanding of how many guys you hooked-up with when you two split-up. Look, Sarah dated two other guys when her and I broke up. Did I like it? Of course I fucking didn't, but it happened, it's life and you have to move on with it, you know? If you don't want Rory to fling your actions in your face, you can't make a big deal out of his. And Seb, look, even leaving aside relationship tactics, anyone can see when he's around you that he absolutely adores you. And the feeling's mutual. Listen to me, you met the one when you were eighteen years-old. I have a feeling, and my gut tells me I'm right, Rory is my future brother because you are going to marry your high school sweetheart. And that's incredible. You've got him back and this kid Alisdair, for all you know, might have no interest in Rory anymore. They dated for a few weeks, months, whatever, in their first year of college. That's hardly unusual! You're with the guy you love and who loves you. Don't freak out about anything. It's not like you!"

I smiled, "Thanks, Evan. Are you going to finish those fries?"

"Yeah, I am. Touch them, and I'll break your fucking fingers, dude."

***

Just after midnight, and the Auld Lang Syne, Rory and I slipped into my bedroom at my parents' house. I turned the main light on, walked over to my bedside table, turned the lamp on and Rory clicked the main light off. The room was bathed in its soft glow, flowing over the contours of Rory's face as he walked towards me. We kissed each other deeply and my hands went round his waist, pulling him in closer until he was pressed tightly against me. His trailed awkwardly up my back until they were on the back of my neck. 

"Happy New Year, I suppose," he said, as we separated. My right hand snaked round to his front and went down to the crotch of his trousers, massaging his building thickness through the fabric. I pulled him back into me for another kiss and began slowly shuffling him backwards towards the bed, until he crumpled over onto it and I lowered myself in with him. I was hard and began to unbutton his shirt. When it had separated along the buttonholes and fallen on either side of his body, I stepped back and, looming over him, pulled my red Christmas sweater off and shucked it to one side. I was completely topless as I leaned back in towards him, but just before our lips locked again, his right hand came up to my chest and stopped me going any further.

"Wait," he said. I leaned back, supporting myself with my arms on either side of him. Beneath me, those big beautiful dark eyes of his were swimming with an emotion that even I couldn't decipher.

"What is it?" I asked, softly, stopping down to kiss him gently on the side of his neck. But his right hand didn't go away and I was gently nudged back into my former position.

"I've just realised something," he said, in some kind of half-whisper. 

"What, baby?"

'I've just sort of figured out... it's just sort of hit me that this is the last time I'll ever have sex with someone different again in my whole life. I know the wedding was, technically, but I didn't... I mean, this is definite. There'll never be anybody else as long as I live. I'm just very happy. I wanted to say it. I wanted you to know."

I felt my lip quiver and my chest contract. My hand went round the back of his neck and pulled him in towards me again. My tongue slipped into his mouth possessively. His torso crushed his right hand, still there, into mine. Mid-kiss, I began to unbuckle his belt and yank off his trousers.

"Me too, Rory," I said, flipping him over onto his front, pulling off shoes, socks and boxers and pulling his ass cheeks apart. I began to lick his asshole, lubricating it up with my spit, by the time he was wet enough for me to slip a finger in there I angled myself until I was on top of him and I kept fingering him as I whispered in his ear: "I love you so much and I will ask you to marry me one day."




Rory and Sebastian Ch. 20



"Just make it special," Rory quipped. "How do you it may as well be a surprise, since we already know what the answer's going to be!"

I made love to him twice that night and again in the shower in the morning. At four a.m., as I was riding him bareback and his legs were draped over my shoulder, I planted two hickies on him as he bit down on the pillow, half-laughing and half-groaning at the juvenile gestures, and nervous of waking my parents up, four doors down. The next morning, I watched him as he slept and I pulled him, naked, into me, nuzzling my dick against his ass. I felt contented as he half-stirred next to me and that feeling lasted for the next week until it was time to separate. We drove together to London with Evan, who dropped Rory off at Heathrow for a flight north to Edinburgh. I felt nauseous as he pulled away from me to pass security. He turned round and smiled encouragingly, but there was pain in his smile as I think he realised just how upset I was to be away from him. We started texting by the time I was back in Evan's car and for the first few weeks, we kept up the schedule we'd agreed upon. 

But the thought of Rory returning to halls adjacent to his ex-boyfriend gnawed away at me, despite Evan's words, Robbie's texts of encouragement and Helen, my Northern Irish flatmate's, joy that this guy who she'd never met had gotten back together with me. I guess my friends had heard so much about him that they couldn't help but know how excited I'd be that we were a couple again. But the images of Alisdair being near to Rory were not helped when I began a stupid perusal of his Facebook page; the guy was quite goodlooking and he had that compulsively well-bred look that the British upper-classes, English, Welsh, Northern Irish and Scottish, can all simultaneously pull off. 

Rory's visit to me in London put Alisdair right out of my head for the time being. The only way to describe Rory that week was radiant, that charm that he used so self-consciously to make people enamoured with him was on full display, he was the life and soul of the party, he was funny, he was charming, he was interested in everything people had to say. Within fifteen minutes of meeting him, Helen liked him more than she liked me. I jest. Kind of. The only fly in the ointment was my flatmate Pete, who was good friends with Daniel, the guy I'd ditched the second I ran into Rory in Edinburgh and who had taken it very badly, to my surprise. Pete was chilly with Rory, which I thought was understandable but pretty unfair. Rory affected not to notice for the first two days but after repeated attempts at politeness, his cold snobbery reared its defensive head again and he repaid Pete's coldness with similar behaviour. 

Sexually, Rory and I were right back to where we had started, with me always on top, and even throwing in a few new moves from what I had learned in his absence, most of which brought him screaming or cooing into cum-splattering - and we had a 50/50 split on blowjobs and rimming. The sex was fantastic and Helen gave me the cheekiest wink in the kitchen when she'd woken up the sound of Rory and I going at it one morning, when we assumed they had all left for class. I smirked and winked back. If Rory was making noise while I was making love, then I was doing my job right. 

When we met in Leeds, a few weeks later, a city between London and Edinburgh, there were a lot of our old schoolfriends around for Robbie's birthday. Because of the number of people showing up, there obviously wasn't room at Robbie's halls and so Rory and I had booked into a cheap and cheerful Travel Lodge room near the city center. I checked in first and he arrived an hour later; I swooped him up into arms, feeling how cold his cheeks were from the February air, and kissing him on the lips, before giving him a little peck on the nose. It was going to be a messy weekend, which we were both looking forward to, since the whole group hadn't properly been together since A-Level results' night at the end of final year, but it was also nice to have a room to ourselves and to spend a few hours on our own. 

As I caught up on a paper I had to read for class, Rory lay on the bed with me, his head on my stomach, stretched out and reading "Great Expectations" by Charles Dickens, one of my favorite reads. I stroked his hair with my spare hand as we read in silence and from time to time, I'd glance down from my pages to look at him, engrossed in his novel, his eyes intensely focused on what he was reading. I loved him so much and it'd be a wonderful feeling telling him that my uncle had given us his cottage to stay in for a few days at the end of semester, so we'd be going right from my trip to visit him in Saint Andrew's south to the cottage. It was the same cottage in which we'd once argued, spectacularly, about his eating disorder, but here's hoping this time round it'd go a lot better. I couldn't wait. Rory has a quality that I've always loved, in which once you've achieved total familiarity, total comfort, with him, you're always kind of hankering to be back in that state again. 

That day in Leeds, I planned to have sex with him before we went to meet the others; it turned me on to know we'd been that close only moments before he turned up so prim, so proper, so well put-together, with everyone else.

"You know he nearly changed the ending?" he said, from his spot on my stomach.

"Dickens?" I asked, although it seemed a fairly fucking obvious question.

He nodded, "They very nearly didn't get together in the end."

"Hmmm. It doesn't make sense," I mused, "that they'd just meet up in that garden and then not get together."

"I don't think they did meet in the garden in the original ending, actually," Rory said, adjusting his head slightly, for comfort's sake. "They met in Piccadilly, or somewhere in London, I think, and they bumped into each other by accident but nothing ever came of the conversation. They kind of just admitted they'd loved each other once and moved on."

"Fuck, that's a depressing ending, after reading the whole book to find out they couldn't make it work and his whole life had been a lie."

"I know. Some people think the ending he went for was a cop-out, a play for popularity," Rory said, getting up to pour himself a glass of water, "but I think he made the right choice. It makes more sense and sometimes it's best to listen to people."

"It doesn't even make sense, though, that they'd not get together."

"I know, but in the original ending, Estella had re-married in the time they were apart. She'd found someone else."

Rory resumed his place on my stomach and re-opened "Great Expectations". I felt a slight twinge of irrational hatred towards Alisdair again, a guy I'd never met.

***

Saint Andrew's is a beautiful place, set north of Edinburgh in the magnificent Scottish countryside, somewhere between a fantasy of Westeros and a Sir Walter Scott novel, and in the two years I dated and visited Rory there, I came to love it deeply. It's small, insular, with an air of a town slightly unsullied by the world beyond. You could kind of believe that Prince William and Kate Middleton had been able to fall in love there and get to know each other without the whole world knowing their business and stalking them the whole time. People were nice there, I liked it and even the biting cold that blasted through there at the tail-end of February when I first set foot there just seemed to add to how stunning the town was in its own rugged isolation. I had driven up, since we would need the car to make the very, very long journey to my uncle's and it would help with me having to take so many clothes and books from my student house at the end of semester, and likewise Rory's. I love driving, so I didn't mind too much and it felt great to wrap my arms around Rory when I got there.

He took me towards the residential halls where he was living. "Do you like it?" he asked. 

"The town is beautiful. It's so different to London. Dumb point. An obvious one," I said, looking at him as we walked through his gates. 

"Good different?" he pressed. "Or just a factual observation different?"

"Good different, dickhead," I smiled. "It feels more like a college town than London does."

"Well, that's not hard."

I rolled my eyes at his cockiness and he swiped us in. We walked up two flights of stairs and I outright laughed in derision when he offered to carry my weekend bag for me.

"Rory, there have been nights out when I carry you home! I think it's safe to say I should be okay with this bag!"

As he was turning the lock in his bedroom door, the door on the opposite side of the corridor opened and a tall, good-looking guy with sandy hair and a soft Edinburgh accent stepped out: "Hey, Rory."

Rory glanced over his shoulder, "Hello, Olly. Olly, this is Sebastian. Sebastian, this is my friend, Olly."

Olly shook my hand with a firm and confident grip. "So, you're the famous Sebastian?" he smiled. "We've heard a lot about you."

I shot Rory a smirk, "Really?"

"Oh my God, how embarrassing," he sighed.

"Yeah, wee Razza here never stops talking about you," Olly teased.

"You are both incredibly annoying. If Erica came up and I told her that, would you thank me for it?"

"But I'm not as in love with Erica as you are with Sebastian. Who could be?"

I laughed. This was on the one hand very, very nice to hear and on the other it was hilarious to see Rory getting teased by someone who wasn't me. 

"Don't you have class to get to?" Rory retorted, with a smile he was trying to hide.

"I do. Good to meet you, Sebastian, and I hope you two will be coming out for a few drinks for the end of term, pal?"

"Definitely," I nodded, along with Rory. As Olly left and Rory opened the door, he held up his hand, "Don't. I can't even bear to look at what your grin must look like."

I shuffled in behind him, "No, no. Just nice to hear that you've such good taste, baby."

"You're so pleased with yourself. Kiss me."

I dropped my bag and kissed him. His hand affectionately rubbed my lower back until I pulled away to take in his room - impeccably tidy apart from a slightly crumpled bed sheet and a few books strewn across his desk, which had a fantastic view out the window of the town and countryside beyond it. 

"I really hate to leave you right after you got here," he apologised, picking up a notepad, fountain pen and a copy of a medieval prayer book. "But this lecture is mandatory."

"Don't worry about it! I'll take a nap when you're gone."

"Please don't masturbate in my bed."

"Haha. As if I'd waste good cum when I have you back in ninety minutes."

Rory winked and kissed me, before sweeping out the door. I unzipped my jacket, kicked off my shoes, peeled off my socks, wiggled my toes as they enjoyed their newfound freedom after hours of driving and lay back on Rory's single mattress. Well, this was going to be interesting for the next two nights. But any possibility of a much-needed nap was shot to shit about five minutes after Rory left by a knock on the door, which I bounced up to get, fixing a polite smile on my face and trying to look energised. I answered it to a curvy girl with a cloud of long blonde hair, immaculately glossed lips and a cableknit top half encased in a gilet, with matching knee-high riding boots and beige chinos.

"Fuck me sideways," she exhaled in an accent so preppy it could shame Rory and Virginia combined, "you must be the boyfriend. You are absolutely delicious! Hi, I'm Rory's friend, Tessa. I live on the floor above."

"Sebastian," I smiled, proffering my hand, which she took. I liked this girl. "Good to meet you. Rory's not in. He just left..."

"I bet he's gone to a lecture," she sighed, popping into the room and sashaying past me. "Oh, he's so diligent I can barely stand how much I adore him for it! So, when did you get in?"

Her eyes, even though they were blue, reminded me of Rory's in a way, because they were, right there and then, full of total interest in the person they were focussed on.

"About fifteen minutes ago," I answered, closing the door behind us. "I drove up, so it's been a long day, but Saint Andrew's is ... gorgeous."

"Isn't it?" Tessa asked, with passionate earnestness. She pointed to the chair at Rory's desk: "May I?" 

"Please!" I said. "And yes, it's a big change to London. I was just saying that to Rory."

"I'll bet it is. And you drove up? That must have taken ages! And Rory says you two are off to a little house in the countryside once term is over? I think that's such a sweet idea and it's so great that you're here. I hope we can all show you a good time. Everyone's just dying, and I mean dying, to meet you, darling. Especially, or except, Alisdair - fuck knows which way he falls on the spectrum of expectation! You know about Alisdair, I assume? Or have I just put my foot in an error the size of a black hole?"

I enjoyed Tessa's no-bullshit approach to conversation and I was actually relieved someone had brought Alisdair up, since I couldn't really ask any of Rory's college friends in case they either reported back to him and everyone else that I was jealous, or they were close friends of my rival's, and let him know.

"Yeah," I muttered, ruefully. "I've heard of him. What's he like?"

"Oh good! I assumed you would have heard about him and Rory, one way or the other, and God knows that if I went somewhere and encountered my boyf's ex, I'd want to be filled in on him. Well, Alisdair is, how do I put this, and I like him, you know, but he's not a patch on you in the looks department. Not even close. Photographs don't do you justice," she enthused, breathlessly, "you are just a total hunk! I'm into my 1980s' lingo at the minute." 

I laughed and took a seat on the bed. 

"It's more that I have slight difficulty in imagining Rory with anyone else but me, which probably seems egotistical and douchey, but it's true. I mean, romantically. It's just a bit weird for me."

"It was never very passionate, although a lot of people had thought they'd get together at some point, especially people on their course, which is where they first met because Alisdair doesn't live in our halls and didn't back in first year, either. But, anyway, they sort of fizzled out at the end of the year and didn't keep in much touch when they went home. They were beige, together, and Razzy glows more about you in absence than he ever did when Alisdair was standing right next to him."

I was grateful to Tessa and I really warmed to her candor. She was completely forthright, no beating about the bush, and I liked that, but this was the second or third time someone had told me that that Rory and Alisdair had fizzled into nothingness and it made me feel uneasy. On a rational and mundane level, I knew that it was a good sign, because it suggested a total lack of passion. However, the other side of me worried that it all sounded like loose ends, a story without an ending, with no firm reason why they would never think of getting back together. I cannot adequately explain, even to myself, what had happened to me in the two months since Rory and I got back together but it was not good. I was so happy when he was next to me, and so relieved, that I had become innately and terrifyingly conscious that this contentment was fragile. I could not shake the feeling that he would leave me again and these feelings of nervousness and insecurity were so new to me, so out of character, that I was processing them badly. I could tell that Rory was aware of them, to what extent he took them seriously I did not yet know, but because we saw each other in the flesh so infrequently the only signs of irritation I'd picked up on were the occasional eyeroll over Skype, but that's transitory, difficult to pick up on, and even harder to question or discuss. It's only when you're next to someone that it's real and that weekend at Saint Andrew's was likely to be the one where the issue boiled over, or rather, came out into the open. I knew I had to say something to him, but I didn't know what words to use. Nor how justified I was. Or how I could confess insecurity to him when he had managed to gamely suppress any signs of resentment or insecurity towards me, after I had slept with about ten times as many people as he had during our separation.

As we got ready to go out that night, I was standing topless before I pulled a t-shirt and rugby sweater on; I caught Rory staring at me. 

"What?" I asked, fondly.

"Nothing. Your body's different, since the first time we dated. I noticed it at the wedding, when all kinds of lust took over us, remember? You're just completely ripped. I thought once you stopped playing rugby so regularly it'd go the other way, but, you are ripped. It's the only word for you. I'm just getting used to the difference."

I was a bit embarrassed and smiled, looking down as I fidgeted with my t-shirt. 

"Is that it?" Rory asked, incredulously. "No, 'You'll thank me when I'm fucking you' response?"

I laughed, but Rory didn't press the conversation and I could feel him getting slightly annoyed, or confused, with my behavior. En route to his friend Tessa's room, he kept up the flow of conversation. It lasted for about two minutes, but I'd heard him do this before. At a dinner out one evening, when we'd fought over his quarrel with Joshua Peterly. Rory could just keep going with inane pleasantries and while he wasn't anywhere near as strained as he had been that night, there was faint trace of effort in his voice as he tried to cover up something he didn't fully understand but knew existed. As we rounded the corner to Tessa's room, there was a guy waiting to go in, who had just knocked and was standing in a tweed blazer, a white shirt, trousers and expensive-looking shoes. His hair was combed to one side and he was holding a bottle of wine in the hand boasting his familial signet ring. I knew from his photographs on Facebook that this was Alisdair. He was standing next to a tall ginger guy in bright green linen trousers, a kid who had the expression of someone permanently surprised by life. 

"Good evening," Rory greeted them, in his brightest tone, a clear sign that damage control had already kicked in. "Chaps, this is my boyfriend, Sebastian Carson; he's visiting from London for the end of term. Darling, this is Alisdair Paisley and Boris Aronson. They're both on my course."

Alisdair looked faintly wounded by how he had been introduced in comparison to me, which I took as a sign that his feelings for him were not quite dead and that any disinterest in the relationship had flowed from Rory, rather than him. Boris extended his hand politely, "Ah, I didn't know Rory was seeing anyone!" he said with artless honesty.

"Yep," I answered, shaking his hand, then offering mine to Alisdair, who took it perfunctorily and asked how my journey from London had been. The door swung open to reveal Tessa in a cocktail dress, "Sorry, guys, I had my hair wrapped in straighteners when you knocked. Come in, come in! I say, Boris, nifty trousers!"

Over the next forty minutes, we were joined in Tessa's room by Olly, who I'd met earlier, by Tessa's next-door neighbor Rita, a half-Sicilian girl who was so beautiful that she could legitimately have passed for a model and who was also one of the sweetest girls I'd ever had the privilege of meeting, then by Colby, a muscular Australian studying German and Spanish who was Olly's best friend; they shared an acid, teasing sense of humor that was quite like my own. And Colby's girlfriend, Monica, who was over visiting from her year abroad at university in Dublin. As the two outsiders, Monica and I chatted for a bit while the others caught up on Saint Andrew's news, but they were all very polite, and Olly and Colby both made a real effort to include me in the conversation. A lot of questions about Rory's school days were asked and I responded with the funniest stories I could think of, including a very good impression (if I say so myself) of the girls Rory was friends with in school - "Oooh, we've met Virginia," Olly said. "Who knew someone that beautiful could be so evil?"




Rory and Sebastian Ch. 21



==Author comment : Thank you so much for your feedback. I wanted to upload a slightly shorter chapter of the two of them getting back into the swing of being a couple. The next story will cover Rory's mom's birthday, as well as bringing back characters for different POVs like Rory's friends Robbie and Virginia. Thank you again. I'm looking forward to bringing the story on to the next stage of their lives, but also I'm enjoying writing them as a college couple!==

*****

==FROM RORY'S POV==

Sebastian lay sprawled on the sofa on the second morning of our three-day visit to his uncle's cottage. He was flicking idly through his phone while I tidied up our breakfast things. He had offered to help, but that seemed like too many of the proverbial cooks for a very simple task. In any case he had cooked, because he seemed to doubt my cooking skills.

"If I had Tinder or Grinder on my phone, even after we started dating, you'd be fucking pissed, right?" he asked.

I glanced over from the sink into the open-plan sitting room: "Is that seriously a question?"

"Obviously, I don't have it," he laughed. "But a friend of mine on the squad at college has it, and his girlfriend just found out. She's really mad and Ryan doesn't seem to get why."

"Well, first of all, if you had Grinder, I'd kill you. Or myself. And/or everyone around us. But even if it was Tinder, yes, I'd be very upset."

"Grinder is worse than Tinder, I guess. There's no pretence there. At least it's honest, I suppose."

"What would you do if I had it?" I didn't feel overly enthused at my boyfriend's defence of the principles of Grinder. 

"I'd be devastated," he said. "Why would you want to lead other guys on or flirt with them, unless you didn't love me enough? That's what I'd think."

"You'd be right," I said, joining him as my chores finished. "Because that's what it means when anyone does it."

"People are dumb," he tossed his phone to an empty seat. "I'm trying to make Ryan see her POV on the squad's WhatsApp, but him and half the guys are acting like I'm betraying the bro code. Fuck that. Come cuddle."

He patted his chest with his right hand. I lowered and shuffled my way down until my head rested in the curve of his neck.

"I'm glad we're here for longer, this time round," I said. "It feels like a proper break and, of course, it's lovely here."

Sebastian had started stroking my back. His other hand rested behind his head. "Me too, baby."

"How's your arse today?" I whispered.

"Why the fuck are you whispering? It's a bit late to play coy," he laughed.

I nuzzled into his chest in a half-faux embarrassed way, as his hand on my back pushed me in tighter toward him.

"You're so fucking cute, Rory. And my ass is doing good. Why? Are you hoping to get back on it?"

"I don't care who's on top," I said, truthfully. "I just thought we should make the most of being away together."

"Well," he said, with a stretch and a smirk, "I'd quite like your dick in me again, so I guess that settles it."

I leant up and ran my hand over his cheek and into his hair. "Listen..."

"Oh fuck, what is it?"

"Shut up," I smiled. "Listen, I just wanted to apologise for the other night. I... don't interrupt... I know we sort of sorted it all out yesterday, but I wanted to properly apologise for asking you to sleep down here, rather than upstairs with me. That was less than ideal. I was slightly hysterical with tiredness after the amount of work last term, and I did genuinely, honestly, think you'd put up more than a fight, but I shouldn't have done it and I really am truly sorry."

"I know, sweetheart, and I am sorry if I was rude or embarrassed you in front of your friends at college, too. It's just, you know, getting back into the swing of things."

"Sebastian, I won't ever walk out on us again."

"That's not what you did before."

"Alright, but to re-iterate, I always want to put the effort in, fight the good fight, if that makes sense? When we need to."

"Okay."

He pulled my head down and kissed me on the lips. My tongue parted his lips and I felt him getting hard in his sweatpants. The kiss began to get more intense, signposting its conclusion. I pulled out of the embrace, "I suppose we should go upstairs?"

"In a minute," he grinned. Sebastian pushed me up and got off the sofa. As he stood over me, he peeled his top off and threw it onto the chair with his unwanted phone. Then he commanded, "Sit up, Ror."

I did and he returned to the sofa, straddling me in the process. I placed my hands on his sides as we kissed again. Sebastian was building himself up, his body - that firm, determined frame of his - was already beginning to pulsate with desire. Even after the number of times we had slept together, it was still exhilarating for me to feel how ... I don't know if this is the word, but, how vital he was. It was lovely, intoxicating, wonderful, to be wanted so intensely. And to be swept up in his confidence, energy and lust. 

The exhilaration, however, received its customary and temporary chilling twinge when he reached down to inch my own t-shirt off me. Of course, it was pathetic and irredeemably idiotic to still feel even momentary insecurity about my body at this stage with Sebastian. But then, how could I compare to him? When he was so wonderful, so fit, so perfect? I fell short compared to most people, but compared to him...

"Arms up," he grinned. My t-shirt was nudged out of our way and, his arms now on the back of the sofa on either side of my head, my darling swooped in for demanding, insistent kisses on the right hand side of my neck. It drove me wild. Him kissing my neck always did. He then lowered himself to my chest and begin to tease my right nipple with his tongue. He stopped for a second, a glance both knowing and questioning - I must have tensed or breathed in round my stomach. I smiled reassuringly at him and guided his head back to my chest.

"Are we good?" he asked, shrewdly.

"Yes," I half-lied. "Honestly, sweetheart. Please, don't stop."

He bit my nipple this time, a trifle roughly and enveloped the whole thing in his mouth. I arched my back in surprised pleasure since, usually, if I'm quite honest, this doesn't really do very much for me. My hands trailed up and down his back and sides. He had leaned back on my lap to angle into my chest; once he finished with my chest, he lurched back in to kiss me again. I moved my mouth down to his nipples to return the favour, since I know he enjoys it. I smiled with one in my mouth as the thought flashed across my mind that he might not. After all, he might be too polite to say anything. Like me... No, he'd say something.

He stood up and pulled his sweatpants off. He spat roughly into his hand and used it to stroke that magnificent cock of his. He leaned over to yank my bare feet up. He kissed my toes and stared into my eyes. With my big toe in my mouth, he winked at me. I laughed throatily. I was too hard to laugh too much, but too in love not to find his staggering confidence utterly endearing. I reached down and rubbed my boner through my pyjama bottoms. The fucker was beginning to hurt and Sebastian noticed. I lifted my bum off the sofa as he stripped the pyjamas off me and, stopping to kiss and nibble on my inner thigh, he began giving me glorious, wet, sloppy head. 

After a few minutes, I pushed him back up to his feet and, still sitting on the sofa, I returned the favour. I loved doing this to him. The angle was awkward and I stopped to get on the ground on my knees in front of him. "Bad angle," I explained with a smile, before guiding his dick back into my mouth. I groaned with pleasure at getting him back in there. I worked up as much spit as I could and began sliding back and forth. Sebastian is a big boy; it takes work to build up momentum. As spit began to trail out of my mouth, he hissed, "Fuck, yes, that's it, baby. You look so fucking perfect like that. Your mouth stuffed full of my dick." His hand came round to the back of my head and he began to thrust a little. I could tell he was trying to hold back a little and I looked up at him, mouth still full and eyes a little watery. I grabbed both of his butt cheeks and began to thrust him in and out. He half-groaned, half-yelled.

"Rory, stop or I'm gonna blow!"

I got up off my knees and he pulled me in for a kiss. I was still a little breathless, so it's no exaggeration to say that for multiple reasons, he had made me go weak at the knees. His hands raced over my back and slapped my arse lightly. 

"Should be go upstairs?" I said.

"No. I wanna fuck on the couch. I want you to fuck me on the couch." His hands caressed my balls. "Is that okay with you, stud?"

I giggled. "Whatever you want."

"That's right."

I rolled my eyes. "We still need lube, though."

"Wait here."

He bounded upstairs, naked as a jaybird and I thought, for a second, of what would happen if we made a mess on the sofa. It was red. The cum would stain. But a moment later, Sebastian appeared in front of me again and told me to get on my back. As he straddled me, he licked my fingers and then coated them in lube. When he was prepped and ready to go, I began to ease my cock into his asshole. He took a couple of deep breaths but once it was in, he sighed happily.

"I fucking love this. Okay, Ror, give it to me."

To be more accurate, he gave it to himself, because he of course was doing most of the riding given the position we were in. At one point, my dick fell out of his ass and I started to laugh when I awkwardly tried to reinsert it and kept missing.

"You do it then," I groaned. "I feel incompetent."

"Don't worry. I always know what your cock wants even before you do."

"How can you still be thinking of ..." Gosh, he was tight. "Jokes, Sebastian?"

He stretched over me and we kissed. After a few minutes, we separated as he lay on his back and brought his knees up and legs apart. I re-entered him and he groaned, "I love you so much."

I became more aggressive, hammering in and out of him while he kept up a stream of expletive-leaden encouragements. I squirted some of the lube onto my hand, picking it up from the side table where Sebastian had tossed it, and used my slippery fingers to jerk him off while trying to maintain my own stride. He shot his load over his abs and pecs. There was a fine sheen of sweat on his body and the cum still there when my balls began to tighten.

"I'm going to cum," I told him. "Where do you want it?"

"On my face," he grinned. I, still pre-orgasm, was flustered and red in the face as I pulled out of him. He knelt on the ground and his arms reached around the back of my legs to rub them as I stood over his grinning, open-mouthed face and twinkling eyes, furiously jerking off. He closed his eyes as I erupted, with cum hitting bits of his hair, nose and cheeks. When I'd finished I felt shaky and he stood up to put his arms around me.

"Let's stay here forever," he said. His voice was deep, soothingly authoritative and his arms tightened me into him again. I kissed him on the lips, not even remotely concerned about the state of his face. Every bit of me felt like it was his property, or protectorate. I don't know which. But I knew it was one of the feelings I enjoyed best in the world. His face trailed downwards for his lips to pucker very gently in the crook of my neck.

*

The final day of our stay there, on that occasion, saw the weather break into pleasantness. There was a sense of Spring properly peeping through the clouds and humming through the air. Although it was by no stretch of the imagination warm enough to don t-shirts, we took advantage to roll out a matty old picnic blanket in the cottage's gently sloping back garden. It looked better than it felt, unfortunately, which necessitated Sebastian returning indoors to emerge with cushions from the armchairs and (recently cleaned) sofa. 

I began to read a book for my course, about the emergence of Islam, but Sebastian plucked it from my hands. "Read for fun or don't read at all," he said. "You need to relax."

He was sitting upright, sunglasses on for the bright if not overly warming sunshine, and he faced away from me staring out over the garden's stone wall towards the rolling countryside, all of it uninterrupted from this vantage point, save for a few discreet power lines held aloft by old timber posts. My head rested on a cushion near his legs and I faced in the opposite direction to his gaze.

"You read history all the time," I protested in my most feeble spirit. I yawned. I could smell lavender from the garden's bushes. 

"Yeah, but I'm a loser."

I snorted disbelievingly and smiled. "Won't you read aloud to me, then?" I asked. "That would be lovely."

"Why? You've got a much more beautiful voice than me."

I yawned again and nestled further into the cushion. I put my hand on his leg: "Please, darling. I'd like it."

He grinned at me. "You're hand on my leg could get me to do anything. Fine. But you'll be bored," he warned, as he picked up his book.

The words floated out over the garden, carried by his warm voice. He read with feeling and eventually lay back on the rug. It was a biography of Benjamin Disraeli and I have never forgotten it. Not because it was particularly interesting, although I'm sure to anyone interested in politics it would have been, but because he read it with such feeling and such sincerity. It was the kind of delivery that could only come from someone who truly and profoundly understood what they were reading. Even more so than his physicality, Sebastian's intelligence was one of those things that I acclimatised to, in the sense, I mean, that I would tell people when I spoke of him that he was 'clever'. He was and I knew that he was. It was an adjective I used to describe him all the time, but when you are around someone so much and are so very close to them, I think it's perfectly possible to lose sight of their most obvious traits. Or, at least, to grow so accustomed to them that you stop appreciating them. Then, every so often, you're reminded of them in full and glorious technicolour. Listening to him read from that book made my heart swell with pride and awe. My mind floated back to one of our first dates, when he had spoken so eloquently about the Spanish Inquisition, one of his favourite topics, and I had been condescendingly taken aback to discover that the frat-esque boy from the First XV rugby squad had such a deep and insightful mind.

When he reached the end of the chapter, he closed the book and patted his chest. I moved over to him, but kept myself prone, facing towards him as he chatted. A few days after we got home to Kent, my parents were going to be hosting a big party for my mother's birthday and Sebastian was, of course, invited as my plus one. This raised the ghost of him having to spend more time in close quarters with my brother Dermot, whose disapproval of our re-kindled romance was a running sore. Sebastian usually affected to be unperturbed by Dermot's animosity and politely avoided mentioning it whenever he could. However, Dermot was both feisty and utterly incapable of hiding his glowers. Given that he was my brother and they would be attending my mother's birthday, there was nothing that Sebastian could do if Dermot crossed the line from icily disdainful to out-and-out rude. 

"Dermot will be fine, Sebastian," I said, in a deliberately calm tone. "He won't do anything to ruin Mum's evening and he's been fine about you and I for months."

"He's been fine with you about you and I," corrected Sebastian. "He leaves the room when I'm around."

"That was Christmas."

"I know you Mastertons," he smiled. "You know how to hold a grudge."

"Don't worry..."

"I'm not worried."

"Liar."

"Not liking something isn't the same as being worried. Would you like it if Evan treated you the way Dermot treats me?"

"That's different," I reasoned. "Evan's older."

"Dermot's old enough."

His jaw had set and I could tell he was getting annoyed, which was my cue to un-press the point. There was no point in ruining the afternoon by an overly zealous defence of Dermot, especially considering that I agreed with Sebastian that Dermot was behaving poorly and that, by all rights, Evan and Jenny Carson had equal reason to be horrid to me, when you thought that their brother had been just as upset by our long ago break up as I had been. Thoughts of different people's reactions to our separation raised another flag about our homecoming.

"Dominic Kirchner's having another party on the 5th," I said. "Are you going?"

He sighed. "Probably not. Are you?"

"No," I said, firmly. He noticed the abruptness.

"That was very firm, baby."

"He invites Joshua Peterly," I explained, trying to sound nonchalant and failing miserably. 

"Fuck, yeah. New Year's," he remembered. "Well, if you're not going, I'm not, either."

"You don't have to do that. He was on the squad with you."

"If he wants me there, or you, he should know not to invite Joshua fucking Peterley. I know Dom's an idiot, but he's not that stupid. Everyone knows how I feel about that stupid cunt." 

"I defriended Joshua."

"Good. I did the same back in school."

"Did you?"

"Course I did. After what he did to you. I threatened to beat the shit out of him, so a friendship on Facebook seemed a bit disingenuous, right?"

I remained silent. A bird sang somewhere nearby and a stronger gust of wind heightened the scent of lavender. I tried to push Joshua Peterly out of my head, lest my unconscious accidentally began to associate that lovely smell with memories of him.

"When did you defriend him?" asked Sebastian. "You should have done it in school after he cyber-bullied you."

"I was not 'cyber-bullied'," I protested. "Especially not by a moronic insect like Joshua."

"Fuck up. Yes, you were. There's no shame in saying that. Jesus."

"I unfriended him after you and I broke-up. He messaged me two weeks after it happened - 'Just heard that he cheated on you. Guess he got tired of having a fat fuck.' After that..."

"He what?"

I nodded. I'd been gazing over him for a few minutes, but I refocused to his face at his question. I half-smiled and gently shrugged. "Of course he did, Sebastian, that's what he's like. It's irrelevant now, anyway. Obviously."

I could feel how tense he was beneath me. "He what?"

"Don't get angry."

"That stupid... vicious... For fuck's sake, Rory. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Why does it matter? It was ages ago, we weren't together and he's, you know, awful. Please don't get angry."

"How can I fucking not get angry?"

"What are you going to do, Sebastian? Re-friend him to de-friend him? Drive to his house and donkey punch him for something that happened nearly two years ago? Who knows, maybe he's grown up... Sweetheart, don't get angry. Relax. Sebastian, you mustn't be so cross."

I traced my fingers through his hair, but even from behind his sunglasses I could tell he wasn't looking in my direction. I let him simmer for a few minutes and kept caressing him.

"I don't like people thinking I cheated on you," he said eventually. His voice sounded strained and there was a slight tremble in it. "I wouldn't want anyone to think... It would annoy me if people thought I didn't know how lucky I was."

"What does matter what anybody else thinks?" I soothed. I kissed him on the cheek. "Sebastian - you'd burst a vein if you thought I was taking seriously anything someone like Joshua said."

He pulled me in and sighed in defeat. "It's just shitty and annoying, but you're right."

The wind blew harder again. "Isn't it idyllic?" I said.

He smiled but didn't answer. 

"Sebastian..."

"It's just that one day we're going to get married and I don't want people think I'm a douchebag that you settled on or who didn't appreciate it. Whatever. It's annoying."




Rory and Sebastian Ch. 21



"Anyone who thought that would be a moron." My heart gave a happy swell though, as it always did when he mentioned the future with such sincerity.

For a few more moments, we rested by each other in a silence that grew more contented as Sebastian calmed down. I turned my head in the direction of the bushes, glancing over my shoulder at the scenery and glancing upward towards the sun. His hand moved up into my hair and gently but firmly began to rub the back of my head. The bushes were bowing and dancing slightly in the breeze and in the distance I could see a sheepdog bolting through the fields in happy delirium.

I felt Sebastian watching me.

"Oh, Rory," he said with such contentment that it made me turn back. "You are so lovely."