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He drops his bag on the ground, the clang of canned drinks bright in the quiet, and sits without any kind of ceremony at the edge of the steep drop. It’s an action that speaks of habit, of doing something hundreds of times within a lifetime. And as I watch Finlay, I’m reminded, I’m overwhelmingly reminded, of Rory doing the same thing, his legs dangling almost tauntingly toward the plummet below. Neither one guarded, neither afraid of the edge, both boyish in their stubbornness. Both almost craving it in a way — the call, the acknowledgment, the security of their own life and mortality. Their superiority, as living beings, over death.
Finlay glances at me over his shoulder. “Comin’?” He pats the ground beside him.
I don’t yet possess that innate superiority. Maybe in time I will, that it’s something to be nurtured from inside. I sit cross-legged beside Finlay, a small distance from the edge but enough to prickle the fear in my heart. It’s oddly thrilling and thrillingly uncharacteristic. I gaze down at the drop below, a shiver running through my veins.
Finlay doesn’t appear to notice my existential crisis. He rummages around his bag, tearing open the tightly packed cans to pluck one for me and another for him. I tug at the ring pull automatically, enjoying the familiar ritual of alcohol, the metallic rip, the relieving hiss, and the glug of a swallow. We clink our drinks together and I give a quick mental thanks to the people who made the drinking laws here so much more reasonable than back home. In a quiet voice, the city glimmering to a golden blur around us, Finlay says with deep fondness and sparkling green eyes, “Happy fuckin’ new year.”
I laugh, echoing the toast, and together we drink. I’m not sure if it’s deliberate or not, but his phrasing takes me back to last year at Lochkelvin, when I’d fumed at him for participating in Benji’s captivity, and bitterly wished him aHappy fucking Christmas.
He leans back with a contented sigh, staring up at the pitch-black sky. I’m too caught on the prettiness of the city to do likewise. It’s special here. Spectacular. Around us, I note several shadowed couples snuggling quietly together, and some friendship groups cheering loudly at a spot halfway up the hill. I feel happy here. At peace in the chill air. As the city flourishes around us, it truly feels as though we’re living inside the eye of a hurricane.
“What do you think they’re doing at Lochkelvin?” I ask, trying to imagine its silence, its stillness, school a world away from the urban vibrancy enclosing us.
Finlay’s face twists, disgruntled. “Writing fanmail tae Benji?” He’s quiet for a moment before adding, “Seriously hope Arabella’s piped the fuck doon. I cannae take another term o’ her bangin’ on about us a’ bein’ sinners. If I wanted that, I’d have actually paid attention tae Danny’s heidcase o’ a dad.”
“I hope Danny’s okay,” I whisper into the dark, and Finlay softens slightly as he regards me.
“He’s wi’ Rory. Rory will protect him.” There’s not a shred of doubt in his voice. He believes this so wholeheartedly, his voice strong and sure. But then he pauses, adding, “I mean, he’ll bully the fuck oot o’ him on the side an’ a’, but other than that…”
I shoot him a glare.
“Chill, sassenach. You know they have their own wee game they play. At the end o’ the day, though, Danny’s a chief, and Rory will stand up for him every time.”
“I never expected to have this. At the start. All of you. All of us.” I watch the couples, the duos, scattered around us, wrapped in their private worlds. With a frown, I realize I can’t even picture being in a couple anymore. It feels restrictive. “I don’t know how it happened.”
“Is it no’ obvious?” Finlay says with a laugh, and takes a hearty drink. “You danced for us, and we fell like fuckin’ dominoes.”
My frown deepens and I take another sip. Although his words are likely true, they feel glib, a disservice to the strange union between us all. Because sometimes our connection seems as though it’s in a way… destined, pre-determined. I shake my head, feeling stupid, and drink more.
“It’s nice, I guess,” I mumble, “us all being equal.”
“Equal?” Finlay cocks an eyebrow at me. He speaks as though testing the word out. “Whit’s equal?”
My brows furrow at his tone. “Us. All of us.” I pause, almost not wanting to raise the next question. “Aren’t we? I mean, for a start, we’re clearly both in love with Rory.”
Even in the low light, I note Finlay’s flushing face. “That’ll never be equal,” he says gruffly, not even bothering to deny it. He turns away from me to gaze out at the city lights, and there’s something raw and broken in his rough voice. “The only way for me tae be equal wi’ you,” he adds slowly, “is for Rory tae love me back.”
I stare at him, stumped. “But hedoes. I see it.”
Finlay shakes his head. “No’ the way he loves you,” he counters instantly, as though this is an argument he’s already had many times inside his head. “He wants you as hiswife, sassenach. He isnae askin’ me tae be his husband.”
Unbidden, a wave of great sadness washes over me. It’s not as if I can deny his words — and yet in that moment I find myself almost wishing I’d never been chosen as Rory’s bride. Not if Finlay’s pain is the result. “I’d marry you,” I find myself blurting, and Finlay gives a sharp bark of laughter.
“When I inevitably die at a tragic age, but at least lookin’ hot as fuck, feel free tae put that on my gravestone, sassenach. The noble wife o’ the lord o’ Lochkelvinshire, and one half o’ the biggest future power-couple the world’s gonnae see, once claimed she’d marry me.”
“I would,” I reiterate, and Finlay’s crooked, disbelieving half-smile spreads across his lips.
“You haveRory, sassenach. That’s mair than enough for anyone.”
I take another sip. It’s lager, which I’ve never tried before, and the bitter tang of it is something I’m still getting used to. I can’t decide if I like it or not, the way it first strikes, refreshing and cool, before turning almost sour. “I don’t get it. This thing between us. You’re in love with him but you’re never jealous.”
Finlay doesn’t answer straight away, which makes me wonder, then, if maybe my observations are incorrect. If he truly is an expert at painting fake smiles on himself, if part of Finlay’s jewel-bright soul is shaded with the darkness of a normal human man.
“I want him happy,” he says after a long time. “That’s whit it means tae love someone, aye? You make him happy. Luke’s always made him happy. And bullyin’ Danny makes him delirious wi’ joy.” I don’t miss the wry tone of his latter words. “I dunno. Maybe I’m too simple-minded about a’ this. I’m happy, sassenach — honest tae God, I’m over the fuckin’ moon about where we a’ are right now — but… that disnae mean we’re a’ equal. I think it’d be disingenuous tae say that.”
“But Iwantus all to be equal.” I try not to notice how childlike my voice sounds.
“Aye, and maybe in time we will be. But history’s still tanglin’ at us. Right noo, Luke wants tae murder me — again. Ye cannae separate years o’ history wi’ a big progressive view o’ the world. It takes time tae unpick the knots.” He reaches for my hand, his thumb sweeping gently across my cold skin. “The point is, we’re growin’ closer every time we’re together, and in a’ honesty, given the personalities involved, that’s a fuckin’ miracle.”
