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“Here. Your lip is bleeding.” Sebastian's eyes trail up the offered handkerchief, up elegant fingers, to a pimply face framed by red curls. He’s seen glimpses of it, in the four days he’d been at the Egyptian British High Commission, flitting around his father.
“You’re new,” He says, and wipes his mouth with his sleeve instead, “What did you do?”
“Excuse me?”
“He put you on babysitting duty.”
“It’s my lunch, actually,” Pimply-boy says, shifting to sit cross-legged beside him.
“Uh-huh,” Sebastian looks back into the stairwell, the scene cut into parts by the marble balusters, “You’re what, an intern? Does MI6 have interns?”
“There’s no MI6. Your father is in the foreign service.”
“Sure.”
“But. Between you and me,” Pimply-boy shifts closer, “John le Carré exaggerated. It’s awfully dull.”
Sebastian laughs.
“I’m Mycroft,” Pimply boy says, “Mycroft Holmes.”
“That’s a shit alias.”
“Mother had me during her hippy phase.”
“Uh-huh.’’
“They’re still serving food in the mess, you know.” Sebastian looks away.
“I can get you some.”
There’s silence.
“I like their chicken kebabs. With the green sauce.”
Pimply bo—Mycroft nods. “Sure.”
Mycroft’s twenty, eight years older than him. He’s reading PPE at Oxford. Balliol. He doesn’t die of Cairo heat in his suit and Sebastian respects that. Impossible to take a man minutes from heatstroke but with a blazer on seriously, and he’s seen many . One time, Sebastian storms into his father’s office while he’s talking in hushed, measured tones to old people trying not to quake in their shoes—Sebastian knows what that means—his sudden intrusion making the veins pop in Augustus’ forehead and Mycroft intervenes. “Sorry,” He says to him, “I told him you’d be free now. I’ll take care of it.” They go out for ice cream. Even though he’s not allowed to leave the building, especially not without guards.
“What’re your parents like?” He says, ankles dangling in the little pond on the embassy grounds. Melted rose ice cream drips down to his calf, and leaves it sticky.
“Boring,” Myc says, “The hippy phase didn’t last. Mum’s a teacher, dad’s an accountant.”
“Sounds awful.”
“Not really,’’ He says, “They’re easy to hide shit from.” He licks at his red lolly, and his eyes twinkle in the sun. Mycroft’s cool, Sebastian decides, even though he’s one of Augustus’ minions.
“What’s it like, being a spy?”
Mycroft sighs, and stretches onto the glass. His shirt’s folded up to his elbows, revealing his pale forearms. A couple of buttons are undone. They reveal a freckled chest. Sebastian looks away and tugs at grass.
“I’m not a spy,” he says, “ Yet . I just get the coffee, run photocopies..”
“Have you killed anyone?”
He laughs. “You really don’t know what an internship is, do you,” Sebastian glowers, “Ah, you’ll never have to go through one, so I guess it doesn’t matter. No. But I know how to shoot a gun. They send you to basic training for six weeks, after they recruit you.”
“You don’t want to become a spy, do you?” Mycroft says, after a gentle pause.
“Father expects me to.”
“Which is why you won’t do it.”
“Hey, I have my reasons!” Sebastian says, crossing his arms over his knees, “It’s bloody stupid. America or Russia. Who gives a fuck,” He pauses, just for a moment, even though he knows Mycroft won’t chide him, “It’s all the same to me. Countries are just imaginary lines in the sand. Men stroking their egos at an international level.”
“You’ve practiced that.”
“Maybe,” Sebastian presses the side of his face over his knees, and looks at Mycroft’s lazily reclined figure, “Do you seriously believe in it? Queen and country and all that crap?”
Mycroft pauses. “No, I don’t think so,” He says, “Honestly? I’m just trying to get some contacts. Like you said,” He bops Sebastian’s nose, “Imaginary lines in the sand.”
—
Two weeks pass by painlessly, mostly due to an expert avoidance of his father. He has dinners in his room. Sebastian’s Arabic is good enough that he can hold conversations with the staff, and make his way through the city on his own, but his accent’s atrocious. Maybe if father’s still here next year, it’ll get better. He collects them, languages. It’s a game, trying to pass off as a native in as many places as he can, as many languages. He can do it with Paris, St. Petersburg, and Madrid. But he’s conversational in far more. They’re easy, once you get the hang of them.
He started playing it with his mother. Whenever they moved somewhere new, she did not speak in English for a whole two months. He kept it up after she stopped coming with them. Augustus hadn’t answered the two times he’d asked where he was, on this tour. The last round ended with a bloody lip.
Another fight, then. A bad one. Sebastian thumbs through her paperbacks, and doesn’t tell anyone.
His days go like this: he wakes up around noon, and has an early lunch, before anyone else filters into the dining hall, and then rushes to the library. It’s a small-ish, well-lit room, with eclectic titles in a dozen languages. He reads there until four, which is when Mycroft gets off, and then they either sit in the lawns or go out in the city. Sometimes, he leaves on his own. He makes sure there’s a note for Mycroft on his table, which is a tiny one pressed right against a window facing the courtyard. The library’s on the first floor, but he can still hear the fountain if he opens the window. Which he almost never does, because of the air-conditioner.
Today, though. There’s someone there. A boy. His age.
The library’s open to the entire embassy, but it’s always empty. It’s his. He feels an unwarranted feeling of possession. The boy, skinny and light brown and hazel-eyed, is on the desk which Sebastian had claimed. No worries. There are two chairs.
The boy’s reading Peter Pan. Sebastian catches glances at him, between the dialogue of a tense interrogation scene.
“I’ve already read that,” The boy murmurs, “It’s nice.”
“Me too,” Seb says, keeping it down. It’s the Spy Who Came In From The Cold. He brought over only his Carré books, as a fuck you to dad, who had seized and then screamed at him to get out when he’d entered his office last year in Spain and said, breathlessly, you’re a spy . But he doubts father’s been in his room. “I’ve read that.”
“It’s my sister’s.”
“You miss her?”
“I guess,” he says, “I’m Alain.”
“Al ain ,” Sebastian says, carefully stretching it out. Alain looks a little startled.
“That’s right, actually.”
Sebastian smiles, “I’m good with names. Sebastian.” He looks shy. Sebastian leans back, relaxes his shoulders. Alain leans in. It’s a trick he learnt from his mother. “So what do you read, then, when you’re not missing your sister?”
He shrugs. “Rumi.”
“A poet , then. Cool.”
Alain flushes, “No, I just,” he rubs his nape, “I just like reading it.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oh, stop it.”
Alain is a poet, Sebastian would wager. A very self conscious one. He knows the look. Probably has a little notebook filled with verse, right beside his bed.
“Have you seen the grounds?”
“I mean. I’ve seen the garden? The fountain’s nice.”
“ No ,” Sebastian says, “The grounds. The unmowed bits. There’s a pond.”
Alain doesn’t look convinced. He seems to sink into his chair with every word, though his eyes are wide and unblinking. Great. He’s pushed too far. “It’s fine if you d—”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
The grass turns from a uniform carpet to mid-calf length tufts. “Ta-da!” Sebastian says. The pond is glassy, and surrounded with flowers and various buzzing insects. It’s always cooler here. A welcome relief from Cairo’s dry heat. Alain sits uncertainly on the grass, probably scared to get his trousers filthy.
“You could probably write a dozen love poems here,” Sebastian says, taking off his shoes and dipping his feet in the water, resting on his elbows. He can feel Alain steal furtive glances. He smiles but doesn’t look, doesn’t want to scare him, “It’s the perfect spot.”
“You’re so weird.”
“But you’re still here.”
“Yeah,” He says, and curls into a ball. They throw stones. Alain’s sink immediately. Sebastian’s record is five bounces. That boy is not an outdoors-y person, he can tell. But he gets two skips out of him, by the time the sky goes red. Alain’s head is on his shoulder. Sebastian’s arm around his narrow waist.
“I need to go home,” Alain says.
Sebastian an unhappy noise.
“Papa’s probably looking.”
He sighs. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yes,” Alain says, “Tomorrow.”
—
Next day, he finds Mycroft in the library.
“What are you doing here?”
He shrugs, “My hours got changed.”
“Right.”
“Do you know Alain?”
“ Mostafa’s son? Of course. His father’s a translator.”
“He seems nice.”
“You like him?”
“Dunno. Maybe.”
Mycroft grins, “Finally making friends your age?”
“Oh, shut up. What are we doing today?”
“Haven’t decided yet,” Mycroft bites his lip, “I lied to you.”
“About?”
“Your father sent me. Today.”
Sebastian freezes. He eyes the door, and then steels himself, “Why.”
“He has news.”
“I don’t care.”
“Your mother’s coming in tomorrow.”
Sebastian’s mouth opens, and shuts. He hasn’t seen his mother in eight months. His head feels heavy, and there’s a sudden burst of pressure behind his eyes.
“I’m going.”
“Sebastian—”
“Leave me alone!” He says, and takes off running towards his rooms in the residential wing. Sebastian locks the door behind himself, and breathes. Just breathes.
—
Eleanor Montgomery-Moran is a tall, elegant woman of an indeterminate age. She strides into the embassy at two am in a beige, loosely hanging suit, red silk scarf, and oversized glasses, and goes straight to her husband’s office. It’s occupied, as expected. Full of lanky brats soaking up Augustus’ words like they’re the gospel. He’s always liked thralls , the egotistical prick.
“Get out,” she says.
Augustus stops mid-sentence. The boys turn, confused and mildly intimidated. One looks at her straight into her dark glasses. He has a head of red curls. She looks back. His eyes are cold. Eleanor smiles at her, like a shark. Redhead flinches. Still got it.
“Yes, I think we’re done here,” Augustus says, handing a sheaf of papers to the boy closest to him, “You all can leave now,” They stand and begin to shuffle out, infuriatingly slowly. Eleanor bites back the snarl blooming in her throat. “Even you, Holmes.” It is only then, that Holmes breaks into motion.
“They’re worse than the last lot,” Eleanor says, slipping into the chair. She props her high heeled shoes on the Mahogany table with a satisfying clack, her ankles crossed. “How have you been.”
“A warning would’ve been nice.”
She pauses, mid-fiddle her slim cigarette case, “Do not insult me, Gus.” Her traitorous fingers are still trembling. She clicks the case shut and sighs, turning to look at him. He’s haggard, clear eyes sunken in, a tightness around his lips. Not that anyone else would have noticed. “You look like shit.”
“Here,” He says, passing her a cigarette. She takes it, pressing it between her lips. “Let me,” Gus holds the lighter. She leans into the flame, not tearing her gaze from his face. Eleanor inhales deeply. His cigarettes are always low tar. It’s not the same. But her fingers no longer shake.
“What happened to your eye?”
Eleanor undos her knotted scarf, and carefully pulls off her glasses. Her right eye is a mottled blue and yellow, “Overambitious bodyguard.”
“You resigned.”
“They took me back,” Eleanor takes another drag, closing her eyes, “Very needy.”
“ You left me. ” The emotion in his voice startles her. Gus’ face is open in a way it hasn’t been in a very long time. He’s angry. He’s hurt.
She laughs. “And now I’m back, darling!”
His nose twitches, like a dog. Augustus gets up from his chair, looming over her, and for a second Eleanor thinks he’s going to punch her in the face. Instead, he takes a deep breath, and stalks over to the window. It’s an old trick. He can’t bear to show her his face.
“Are my things here?”
“No.”
“ Fuck , even the silver fox coat? That was an heirloom.”
There’s no response.
“I’ll find myself a room.”
“Wait,” he says. She pauses in the doorway. “There’s a party. Tomorrow. Be presentable.”
Her fingers curl around the threshold. “I always am.”
“Maman.”
Eleanor eyes zero in towards the soft, shy voice. To the pillar.
Dear god. Sebastian’s still supposed to be eleven, that’s a teenager, all lanky limbs and overgelled hair. Wait. Eleanor mentally does the math. Twelve. He looks fifteen. Ages older than the boy she left at the gates of Eton, eight months ago. He comes up to her shoulders, now.
“Aftaqiduk.”
She smiles. “Never caught onto Arabic, dearie.”
“Missed you.” Eleanor hugs him, and slips her fingers into his hair. She rubs a lock between her fingers, “Hm, greasy. Not washing your hair, stinky boy?”
“Don’t like it.”
“I know,” She says, and kisses his hair anyway, “I know.”
“What happened to your face?”
“Oh, I,” She scowls, “Some very very bad people tried to attack maman. And I showed them exactly WHO they were dealing with.”
“You don’t need to talk to me like I’m a child.”
The sentence startled her, but she didn’t let it show. Perhaps eight months meant longer, at his age. Eleanor plasters over her uncertainty with a smile, and ruffles his hair. Sebastian immediately begins to fix it. “Go to bed, kiddo. It’s late.”
“Whatever,” he says, slumping and looking away.
“Hey,” she says, “Remember what I told you?”
Sebastian stiffens. His real age creeps onto his face, in the roundness of his eyes.
“Recite it back to me.”
“I’m going back to bed.”
“ Sebastian .”
“Sagittarius Virgo Cancer Scorpio."
She smiles. “Good.” It’s another thing they have. Mother tells him a string of random words, occasionally, and tests him. Sebastian hates it. He’s figured it has something to do with her job, that it’s some sort of failsafe if she doesn’t.. Come back.
He hates it.
“Wear that tux I got you, tomorrow,” She says, touching his collar, “You look so smart in it.”
It doesn’t fit anymore. He doesn’t tell her.
—
His collar’s scratchy, as expected. Sebastian ended up wearing one of his mother’s blazers, a black affair with silver piping at the cinched waist.
“I look ridiculous.”
“Obviously,” She says, swiping on red lipstick, “You need to own it.” Maman smacks her lip and swishes over to him, red silk trailing behind her. She holds his shoulders, and pushes them back , “Relax your wrists.” Her fingers dig gently into his muscles, “Deep breaths. Smile. Not too much, though, we don’t want you to look stupid.”
Sebastian does. He can’t tell a difference. She smiles though, in the mirror. “Good. It’s all perception, dear. Act sure. Act deliberate. Everyone’s self conscious, you have to convince them that you’re not.”
“Even you?”
Eleanor smoothes the perfect curl over her right eye, and considers his question seriously. “I can’t tell anymore.”
“There’s a shortcut, you know. If you can’t figure out the confidence thing. Look bored.”
“But I will be bored.”
“No, you’ll be nervous, and irritated, because they’re all grown ups you don’t know and you’re wearing a woman’s jacket and you think they’re secretly laughing at you,” She says, “You have to act like you do this every day, and they’re the ones being weird but you’re polite enough to not point it out.”
A pause. “Okay,” he says, fixing his tie in the mirror, “I do this every day.”
“And the jacket’s yours.”
“And the jacket’s mine. ”
Eleanor takes a bit of styler, “See,” and gels his hair back flat. It looks darker, “Not ridiculous anymore.”
—
Sebastian stands in a corner, invisible. He holds a flute of champagne, with cut up rose petals and flecks of gold. The server probably thought he was sixteen, not young enough to deny him and risk getting yelled at. Sebastian sips at. It tastes like nail polish remover. He likes it.
“Aren’t you a little young for that?”
He starts. Spills it over his thumb.
“Oh. It’s you.” For a second, Mycroft reminds him of his father. The ease. The well cut suit. The carefully messy hair.
“You’re usually happy to see me.”
“Offended?” He maintains eye contact while drinking down the whole thing. His throat burns. Mycroft quirks an eyebrow. Sebastian scowls and wipes at his mouth with his sleeve, “I hate it here.”
“C’mon,” He takes his hand, “Balcony’s empty.”
Hot air blasts them once they exit the air-conditioned ballroom. Sebastian inhales the night. It’s dry, and smells faintly of rosewater. Beside him, Mycroft shrugs off his jacket and rolls his sleeves. Loosens the tie.
“We’re going to stay here?”
Mycroft shrugs. “I don’t have anything else to do.” Sebastian pointedly doesn’t look at his arms.
He smiles. It’s warm. Nothing like he gives his father. Sebastian clears his throat, and coughs. The alcohol lingers at the back of his throat.
“Easy,” Mycroft says, and doesn’t touch him, “First time can be hard.”
“Not,” Sebastian wheezes, just a bit, “My first time.”
“Course not. You’re too grown for that.” Sebastian looks at him.
“What do you want, Holmes?” He says, “What do you want from me ?”
“I’m your friend, Sebastian.”
He scoffs. “Right. You just think I’m a stupid kid.”
Now he has Mycoft’s attention. He’s frowning at him. Sebastian wants to punch his nose. He knows that frown. Knows that expression, “Don’t feel fucking concerned , I’m not—” Oh, god. Oh god oh god. His eyes burn. Sebastian looks away, at the tree. The leaves blend into the dark, but the white jasmines stand out.
“Sebastian. Seb,” Mycroft’s hand hovers over his shoulder, and then grasps. Sebastian flinches. Mycroft remains strong. “Hey.”
“Fuck you.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” He’s crying now. Tears thick and salty. Snot cooling his upper lip. “Don’ even know why I’m acting like, I’m not,” he wipes his face roughly. Stains the jacket. Mother will be angry. A single sob breaks free, and he hates himself.
Mycroft hugs him. “It will be alright, Sebastian,” He says, “I’ve got you.”
It won’t be. It never is. There is a reason why he’s crying into Mycroft’s chest, but he can’t say it. Can’t get the words past his gut. Can’t find them. It’s the heaviness in his lungs, that never goes away, that sometimes bubbles over and makes him crumble. An owl hoots in the Jasmine tree. Nightingales chirp. No wispy cloud blurs the moon’s outline.
“I wanna go home,” Sebastian murmurs, between heaves, into the crumpled silk of his shirt, “Please. I just wanna go home.”
Mycroft’s silent.
An hour later, he waves a server carrying a tray of entrées into the balcony, and gets him a wad of tissues. Buttons his jacket.
“I’ll take you to bed.”
“I want to see mummy first.”
“Right. Of course.”
She’s throwing her head back and laughing, slinky in the dress, champagne in hand. Surrounded by men, and their subtly tugging wives.
“Mummy.”
No response.
“Mummy!” He says, a little bit louder. “Ma’am,” Mycroft chimes simultaneously.
She swirls. “Ah! My dear,” Eleanor says weaving through her entourage and leaning down to his level. “Aw, Sebby, have you been crying ?” She smells bitter. Her ankles tremble in their angled cage. She sniffs “Have you been drinking? ” Her voice isn’t as sweet anymore.
Mycroft clears his throat. “He isn’t feeling well. I was just taking him to bed.” She snaps into attention, as if it were only then she had realised he existed. Eleanor’s eyes narrow, “You,” Eleanor walks towards him, “What a,” She steps forwards ungracefully, and flattens his collar, “A good little nanny .”
“Sweetheart,” Father says, though his tone implies bitch , “Perhaps you should let Holmes take Sebastian to his room.”
“Don’t you tell me what to do!”
The band does not stop. The people do not freeze. But there’s a very, very subtle shift that implies all the attention in the room is zeroed in on the bit of floor the Morans are occupying. Sebastian fists the back of Mycroft’s blazer.
“You’re drunk, Eleanor.”
“And you,” Her wrist sways, spilling champagne and petals, “Are sober. Always. Always in control. Augustus Moran,” She says, dropping the glass to stab at his chest with her red nail. It shatters. “You’re,” she shoves her finger into his chest, “Going,” Again, “To lose.” And again.
Augustus laughs and swipes back his hair, “Dear, perhaps it’s time for all of us to go to bed,” He says, taking her elbow. His smile strains at the edges, “Come on. It is late.”
“Let me go, you—” She slips her elbows free, and she rushes to Sebastian, hands wild. The perfectly curled bang has slipped from her eye, revealing a sparse mottled blue and concealer, “Baby. Baby, listen. Listen to me,” She’s crouched over, holding Sebastian’s face tightly. Her nails dig just under his eyes. “Remember. Remember the words. Don-Don’t let those bastards get them Sebby, don’t let them get me,” She’s crying. Sebastian can’t breathe. Eleanor rushes forward to kiss his forehead and then sobs into his hair, “Don’t let the fuckers take me, baby.”
“Mycroft.” Sebastian can see figures, through a curtain of blond. His father. Staring down at them.
Mycroft’s hand curls into his shoulders. “Sebastian. Now.”
He doesn’t budge.
“Sebastian,” He says, quietly, “Sagittarius.”
His mother is tugged away. Sebastian looks up at Mycroft. He nods. His lungs are lead, and sinking. Sebastian’s in the bed. He doesn’t remember walking. Doesn’t remember taking off his shoes.
“Tell me the words.”
“No.”
“I don’t work for your dad, Seb,” Mycroft kneels beside him, stroking his hair, “I work for Eleanor.”
He’s tired. He wants to go to sleep. Mycroft’s eyes are warm, in the nightlight. “Sagittarius,” He murmurs, “Virgo. Cancer. Scorpio.”
Mycroft’s face splits into the grin. In the gentle dark, all he can see are pale, straight teeth. “Sebastian,” he says, “Thank you.”
xxx
Next morning, nothing has changed. He wakes at noon. He has breakfast. He goes to the library. He doesn’t read. Doesn’t talk to Alain. But it’s fine, Alain can only stand one minute of awkward, stretched silence before leaving. It’s okay. He has his table now, all to himself.
Mycroft comes to see him, when it’s dark outside the window and owls hoot.
“Where’s mum.”
He doesn’t need to look at Mycroft to know it’s him.
There’s a drawn silence. Then something nudges his shoulder. It’s a paper. The Egyptian Gazette.
“I am,” Mycroft says, “Sorry.”
“Shut the door.”
It’s on the front page. British Ambassador’s Wife Arrested For Treason.
On Friday night after a soirée thrown for the twenty-third anniversary of…
It’s that midsummer night, in the dark kitchen of the British high commission in Cairo, on tiles gleaming and cold, that Sebastian Moran truly discovers alcohol.
First times are always hard.