July 1923, London, England
Jack Porter’s birthday party was very large and very loud. People crammed every part of their house, from the first floor to the third, and it was amusing to watch as Wilhelmina and her husband scrambled around their house, trying to speak to all the people they invited.
“Byron! You’re just standing there looking like a wallflower when I know you’re not,” Wilhelmina exclaimed, moseying her way over to him.
“I’m just observing the crowd. He nodded his head toward the tall red-haired man. “I’ve not seen that man at any of the parties you’ve hosted or any I’ve attended recently. Who is he?”
“Oh, I’ve been meaning to introduce you, he and Jack were flatmates back before he made it as a poet, and he was still in medical school. They’ve been friends longer than I’ve known Jack. Dr. MacGregor has been traveling the world since his wife died, and he’s only recently returned to London. You two would get along greatly—you’re both arguers.”
Byron froze. “I’m sorry, did you say his name was MacGregor? Montgomery MacGregor? From Perthshire, Scotland? The Scottish communist Montgomery MacGregor?”
“You know him?”
He gulped, nodding slowly. “He… he was… he’s my late sister’s husband.”
Wilhelmina looked equally shocked. “...Edeline was your sister?”
“Yes. You knew her?”
“We were friends, my god, I had no idea you were related. I’m so sorry.”
“You weren’t at their wedding or her funeral.”
She frowned. “Jack couldn’t get leave, and Joel had just returned home when they were married.” She bit her lip. “And Jack was still getting over the flu when she passed.”
“I… I think I am going to speak to him.”
Byron swallowed as he made his way over to the bar. It had been over four years since he last saw Montgomery, not since his father’s and sister’s funeral. He was clean-shaven, his hair was shorter, his glasses different, and if Wilhelmina hadn’t pointed him out, he doubted he would have recognized him.
“You look very different without a mustache.”
He turned around, and his eyes widened behind his frames. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ! Byr—no, it would be yer grace now, wouldn’t it?”
“Don’t fucking call me that. My god, it is you.”
He set his drink down. “Jesus. Ho-how are ya? How do ya know the Porters?”
“Divorced. Wilhelmina’s late brother and I were roommates in boarding school, and… we were sweethearts for a summer when I was younger.”
“...Ya look well. Better than the last time I saw ya.”
Byron looked at his feet. “You as well. Where have you been? It’s been four fucking years.”
Montgomery shrugged, pushing up his glasses. “Everywhere.”
They spent hours talking (and drinking). Byron told him everything he’d done in the last four years, excluding his sexual escapades with men while Montgomery described the last four years of his life. He had traveled all over the world as a way to grieve. He’d been from everywhere from Tibet to the northernmost point of Alaska, which impressed Byron greatly. He’d helped organize the British Communist Party but had only recently left it after a spat with the general secretary and a trip to Russia, and how he’d become disillusioned with the political ideology he once held to heart, and its lack of choice and democracy.
“Democratic socialist I suppose I am now, but I dinna ken.”
He’d only returned to Britain from his travels a month ago, and had moved into an old house that had been converted into three townhouses, smaller than his old one. It was difficult to be in Edinburgh, so he’d returned to London, working as both a private physician and part-time instructor at a teaching hospital.
“I have an old whiskey me mother gave me when I turned 30. Never opened. Fancy it? Me place is only a block away, straight down the road.” His accent had grown nearly twice as thick.
Byron looked around at the dwindling party. “Sure, I’d rather not be a straggler.”
It was well decorated, which immediately gave a clue that Elspeth had been the one to do his house. He watched as Montgomery disappeared into the kitchen, and he sat on the sofa, staring at the photographs of his late sister, who stared right back. It was uncomfortable, though he couldn’t place why.
It wasn’t until half the bottle was gone, and Byron and Montgomery were both properly drunk, when he glanced at the clock on the wall and saw it was past one in the morning.
“Oh fuck, it’s late.”
Montgomery blinked, slowly turning his toward the clock. “Aye, yer right.”
Slowly, Byron stood up, looking around for his overcoat. “Thank you for the whiskey. Do you think taxis operate this late?”
“Where are ya stayin’?”
“The Ritz.”
“Shite, that’s the other side of town. No taxi is available now.” He waved upstairs. “Take me bed, I dinna care. I can sleep on the sofa.”
“No, I can take the sofa, I don’t want to impose on your hospitality.”
“A duke on me fuckin’ sofa?”
“I’ve slept in worse places.”
The older man shook his head firmly. “I insist. Me bed feels like heaven.”
Byron shrugged, deciding he’d rather not argue with the Scotsman.
When Byron stepped inside the bedroom, a pang of sadness hit him. The way the room was decorated, shades of green and florals reminded him of Edeline, who adored green and decorated any space with it when she was able to. He wondered if Elspeth had done this for her brother on purpose.
He sat on the bed, feeling the mattress sink. He felt awkward, and things around him had begun to blur. Byron looked up to Montgomery had gotten closer, to the point where their feet were almost touching. There was a glossy look in his eyes as they made eye contact and all of a sudden, the room grew very quiet.
“Byron?” Montgomery whispered after minutes.
He licked his lips. “...You’re quite attractive, you know that?”
The Scot bent down and grabbed his face, and not much was said after their lips touched.
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