-- 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?"
