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Sometimes when the memories became too much, when Richard could feel the metaphorical blood on his hands (out out damn spot), he would seek out Francis, an antidote to guilt--at least for the moment. There was something freeing about it, about letting go completely and giving yourself over to another's hands. It helped that Francis understood, had been at the ravine that day, had watched Bunny fall. Francis knew about guilt, knew how it could ruin you if you let it.
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Richard feels alive when Francis fucks him, feels more alive than he has in a long time. It's an illusion, but a convincing one, and one that he keeps chasing.
The first time it happens, it's hurried and rough. There isn't much room on Richard's college-issued extra long twin bed, and they're an awkward tangle of clashing limbs. But for a moment there, Richard forgot everything. All that existed was him, Francis, and the feel of the cheap bed sheets beneath them.
After that they tend to go to Francis' apartment. The bed is bigger, and they have more privacy. They can take their time, take each other apart slowly until nothing remains but heat and want.
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Richard is replaying memories in his head, memories unwilling to lie still. He is at the ravine, watching as Bunny toppled off the edge. He's in the hotel room, watching Henry shoot himself as he tries to staunch his own bleeding.
He finds himself outside of Francis' door at quarter to midnight, unsure of how he got there.
Francis opens the door with a glass of something amber in one hand and gestures for Richard to come in with the other. Richard waits for him to set down his glass before approaching. He takes in Francis' appearance, the rumpled shirt and messy hair, and thinks that Francis has been plagued with similar thoughts today.
Richard doesn't waste any time with pleasantries. He drags his fingers over the sharpness of Francis' collarbones and slips his other hand under his shirt. Francis tilts his head slightly and Richard starts kissing up his neck, walking them backwards towards the bedroom. Neither have said a word so far, but they are familiar enough with each other that they can communicate with silence alone.
Richard watches Francis undress, and moves to do the same, but Francis reaches out a hand and stops him. He steps closer and begins to undo the buttons on Richard's shirt himself, pushing it off his shoulders and letting it drop to the floor. When Richard is completely naked, Francis pushes him gently back onto the bed.
Richard grips the sheets as Francis maps out his entire body, first with his hands, then his mouth. Francis covers familiar skin slowly, with wet open-mouthed kisses until Richard is writhing beneath him. Richard can feel himself falling apart, can feel himself about to shatter.
"Please," he begs. It's the first word either of them have spoken. "Please."
"What do you need?" Francis asks, running his hands up Richard's thighs.
"You. Just you."
Afterwards they stretch out on the bed and share a cigarette.
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Eventually Richard meets someone and seriously thinks about settling down. Ella majored in creative writing and has a good job down at one of the restaurants along the river. She doesn't share Richard's interest in the classics, but they have enough things in common that conversation is never lacking. They have something good together, but it's not quite enough.
Richard continues sleeping with Francis. He thinks he should feel guilty about it, but he doesn't.
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He and Francis are laying next to each other, still nude, too lazy to get up and get dressed.
"Ella knows about us."
"Did you tell her?" There's no accusation in Francis' words, just curiosity.
"No. She said something earlier about you and it turns out she's known all along."
"Hm."
"It doesn't change anything," Richard says.
"No, I suppose it doesn't."
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Francis comes to the wedding. He sits and smiles when he's supposed to, but it's forced. Richard can tell that he'd rather be elsewhere. For a moment Richard wishes he was elsewhere too. But it's only a moment, and when he turns to look at Ella he remembers every reason why he loves her.
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Francis leaves the country house to Richard in his will. Richard is hesitant to show Ella, it's sacred in a profane way, the site of so much drunken debauchery and sin. But it's also the site of quiet afternoons in the boat with Francis, of tea shared with Camilla, and ancient epics studied for Julian. It's home, in a way. It's also haunted, or so it feels when Richard returns there after Francis' funeral. He can feel the dead in the shadows as he wanders the unlit halls, murmuring condolences under his breath.
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"Did you love him?" Ella asks when he returns home.
Richard thinks about it. He thinks about the sex, heated but vacant. He thinks about the conversation, stilted and uncomfortable. No, it wasn't love. It was something more primal and basic: need.
Richard looks up. Ella is still waiting for an answer, so he gives her the truth.
"He was there."