Fourteen Years Later

The beat is something I'm not too familiar with, some kind of new techno band whose lyrics seem to consist of....wait, is that a cover of 'Rock the Casbah'?

That's practically sacrilegious.

I run a hand through my hair, dirty blonde, although I took Carrion's advice and ran a green streak though it. Hey, it works at my job. People practically expect fashion designers to be divas.

And although Carrion wanted to be here, our ten-year high school reunion, she couldn't, because she's a lazy butt and wanted to stay at work and create the June issue of her magazine. Shame on her. So I'm here, totally by myself, with former classmates giving me odd looks and occasionally asking, "You're so rich, why aren't you married yet?"

Well, ahem. Pardon me for being gay. And anyway, who would be married when you have the sixteenth Harry Potter book to look forward to?

(Just joking. Honestly, sex is just as important as Harry Potter. I swear it is!)

I'm hanging around by the punch bowl, when a head full of blonde hair begins to make its way toward me.

"Hey Cyril."

"Hey...Monica? Why are you -" talking to me, I finish mentally, but decide that wouldn't exactly be the kindest thing to say. After all, those with ovaries have sensitive feelings.

She fidgets, rocking back and forth on her sensible flat shoes. Wait, sensible? Since when is Monica sensible?

"Haven't seen you in a while," she bursts out finally. "So you're a fashion mogul, huh?"

I can't help but grin; I love being famous! "Yup! And what about you?" I gesture to her austere outfit.

"Oh," she grins, flounces out her skirt. "I'm a first-grade teacher, actually. Happily married, too!" She shows me the gold band on her finger.

"Really? When?"

"First semester in college."

Wow. Wouldn't have expected that to come from the school slut.

"But anyway - Cyril -" her face suddenly gets serious again. "What I really wanted to do is to apologize for how I acted...pretty much all through high school. It was bratty of me, and I'm sorry I screwed your relationship with...everybody."

"Oh," I wave off her apology, "Carrion and I got back together, and Ryan was always a good friend. I don't need a lot of people."

"Yeah, but..." she falls silent. "You know, LaFae."

"Oh," I say heavily. "Him."

I haven't thought about Sylvester in, oh, about five years now. Life has been too busy, and what's that saying? Let old dogs lie? Or don't let them learn new tricks, or something that has to do with dogs and staying put.

"Well," Monica tilts her head to the back of the building, "you might want to go outside. Just for old times' sake, you know."

I blink. Is she saying...what I think she's saying?

Monica extends her hand. "Peace?"

"Yeah," I say, accepting her shake. "Peace."

She darts off in search of Goddess knows what, and I turn, start heading for the back of the building, where the caterer's parked their truck.

I lean against the brick and light a cigarette. It's a bad habit, I know, but when you hang around in France for months at a time you really start to pick it up. Damn French smokers. Now they've got me hooked on Gauloises and I can't really get them in the States unless I special-order them.

The spark from my match is the brightest light in the shadows; I'm not quite sure what Monica wanted me to see, but I don't think she's getting football players to beat me up again. If she is - watch out, I take kung fu, bitch!

A man stands up from where he's sitting by the truck, dressed in the black caterer's shirt and black slacks. He mouths something illegible to the guy next to him, who then hands him a slim cigarette.

When the man comes closer to me, I see a flash of his face. Pale, dark eyeliner. Could be mistaken for a girl.

My breath comes faster; heartbeat slamming against my chest. I shut my eyes.

The footsteps stop, then there's the click of a lighter and I hear him say, in that delicious tenor voice I knew so well, "Long time no see, Cyril."

I open my eyes. "Sylv." My voice is flat. "The only guy I've ever had leave me. What a pleasant surprise."

His eyes are dark and hurt. "That's not my fault. Last time I checked, you were the one pissed off at me."

I just look at him, and damn! - he is still the hottest man I have seen. Ever. Period.

"Fine," I say, holding up my hands. "Sorry. My fault completely."

He eyes me for a moment, then sighs suddenly and says, "Fuck, I missed you."

I turn to face him, and shiver. I still am in love with him. The way those eyes make me feel tells me so.

I reach over and pluck the cigarette out of his mouth. His eyes open wide when I throw it on the ground and grind it out with my heel, followed my own cigarette. I make those eyes shut, though, when I grab his face in my hands and kiss him like I've never kissed anyone before. This time, I'm the aggressor, because now I know something that he never knew. I know what it feels like to be loved, and more than anything I want to show him that.

Hands slip around my back and I realize with a start that I'm taller than him. Hugging me close around the waist, he breaks off the kiss and just leans his head against my chest. I hold him.

"Fuck..." he says, his voice broken and choked with sobs. "Fuck, Cyril, you have no idea what happened to my life when I left."

There's one of those rubber bracelets people are so fond of around his wrist; RIP Darla.

I stroke his hair as he cries into my shirt. I don't ask him about the bracelet. We'll have years to get to that.

Sylv leans back, gazes up at me. Eyes rimmed with eyeliner and mascara dripping down his face. Fragile. So beautiful. I catch a tear on the tip of my finger and lick it.

He clears his throat, steps back. Tries to regain his dignity but he knows it's useless.

"God. I want you." I didn't really mean to say that, but the words spilled out.

Sylv looks at me with a kind of gleam in his eyes. "You grew up, Cyril. Looks like you're the man in this relationship now."

Ooh. That sends tingly feelings up my spine.

Sylv reaches out and touches my chin lightly. I make eye contact. Beautiful brown eyes.

"Hey, remember the first time we met?" he says. "When I told you I'd fuck you in the Mustang?"

I nod mutely, unable to speak, and now his eyes are glimmering with mischief. His fingers move down to my chest, caressing. Embracing. His lips move.

"You still have my car?"


a/n: so that's it. it's finished. i'm not gonna do long review responses, but i just want to say that every person who reviewed, THANK YOU. if i didn't know there were people reading this i would never have finished. you guys mean so much to me. yay for happy endings!