The Man Who Lived Again

28

It's not that I disliked sex with Nick, or even with the one-night stand I had in January, but it wasn't this. It wasn't anything like this. There was always something in the background with them. A little bit of fear, maybe anxiety, or some amalgamation of both that made it feel more like going through the motions. I never really communicated with Nick during sex; we sort of just did it, and it was fine–nice, even–but it's instinctive with Preston. I don't get embarrassed about asking to try something new, or telling him what feels good, not that I ever really need to. It's like he implicitly knows me; knows my mind, my body. Everything.

After Damien's unexpected appearance, we have moments of uncertainty, but they're always brief. I see a wariness in Preston's eyes sometimes, usually in the early mornings when the quiet sobers us into remembering that our time is running out. He'll say something to me on occasion; nothing explicit, but something to remind me–to remind us both, I think–that we don't have forever. He'll suggest a night out with everyone once exams are over, check that I've got everything sorted for when I return to my flat, or ask when my flatmates are back in London. Just small reminders.

It's eleven o'clock on a lazy Sunday morning, and Margot's due back tomorrow. We're in Preston's bed, where we've stayed for the past sixteen hours, and he's reading something while I listen to his heartbeat, my ear pressed against his bare chest and my arm draped over his torso. I crane my neck to look up at him, and he's holding his physics book, his brow furrowed behind his round glasses as he subtly mouths the words he's reading.

God, he's such a fucking nerd.

The image is in such stark contrast to what we were doing–what he was doing to me–barely ten minutes ago that I have to turn away to stop myself from giggling. I lower my ear back to his chest to listen to his steady heartbeat, a small smile breaking onto my lips as I shut my eyes. I'm on the brink of dosing, my eyelids fluttering closed when I feel him take a breath.

'There's a guy on my course I think you'd like,' he murmurs out of nowhere, and I return my attention to his face. 'I can send you his socials, if you're interested.'

He says it like an afterthought, just a passing comment without so much as sparing me a glance. I know not to take it personally. I know it's his way of reminding me that this thing between us is purely physical, that from tomorrow, our real life restarts. I know it's his way of protecting me–protecting us–from getting hurt, but that knowledge doesn't stop the sudden feeling of being underwater.

'Maybe,' I say, and I keep my eyes on him for long enough to notice his jaw twitch, then return my head to his chest. 'Yeah, send me his socials.'

The quiet that follows is suffocating, as if something is clawing at me, pulling me out of this world we've created and forcing a chasm of space between us.

But then Preston murmurs, 'I'll forewarn him about your name; politely ask him not to pass comment on its resemblance to an STD,' and everything, even if it's temporary, feels okay again.

I'm at Preston's house when Margot returns the following morning. Preston's making a late breakfast while I watch TV in the living area, and she bursts through the door with a big smile and an even bigger hug, and that's it, I figure. The past two weeks are over, our time has drawn to a close, and we can shut the curtains on the things Preston and I did together–draw a line in the sand and put an official stop to everything.

It doesn't stop, though.

It becomes more difficult and less frequent, but it doesn't stop. I finally return to my flat, we no longer spend every minute of the day together, and from everyone else's perspective, we're no different to what we were pre-Easter. I spend a few evenings a week at Preston and Margot's, just like I did before, and so long as Preston sleeps on the sofa, nobody questions anything. Once the rest of the house is asleep, I'll pop downstairs to invite him upstairs. We just need to be careful we don't fall asleep afterwards, which has only happened once, but he woke up early enough the next morning to cover our tracks.