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Jonathan led them outside through the train station's doors, weaving between black cabs gliding across the taxi rank. Their suitcase rattled behind him—of course he’d wound up with the suitcase—while Edgar at first jogged to keep up, then overtook.
“What’s your hurry?” Edgar asked, walking backwards for a beat. He was pulling a face.
“I feel like tea,” Jonathan said. There was a café still open nearby, according to his phone. “Proper English tea, and we’re in the place for it. Don’t you?”
Edgar oriented himself the right way round, but Jonathan heard from his voice that he was smiling. “It has been a century since we could digest the thing, my dear.”
“You know I like the scent.”
Jonathan found that it refreshed him. High-speed rail was a misnomer; one hundred and fifty minutes of it had left him feeling sluggish. At least there was no threat of jetlag between Paris and London.
“Look at this place,” Edgar murmured. He tipped back his head, reviewing the scenery.
The cityscape was tall and compressed. Architecturally, little had changed: Jonathan recognised the outlines of the buildings but not their modern purposes. Everything had more windows, now, but that was it. The London of Jonathan’s recollection was less accommodating to natural light.
Edgar must’ve been thinking along similar lines. “It’s like we never went anywhere at all.”
Jonathan checked his watch, determining they would just about make it if they kept pace. “Then next time, we’ll leave it longer.”
The barista seemed aggrieved that Jonathan had beaten closing time by approximately two minutes. He took his first deep inhale from the paper cup the moment she handed it to him, safe in the knowledge her estimation of him had nowhere lower to go.
He told her to keep the change from a banknote, though not before balking at the price. And he’d thought Paris was expensive.
Edgar had remained outside, where Jonathan discovered him brandishing his phone like a zealous paparazzo, taking aim at banalities.
“There are lampposts everywhere,” Jonathan pointed out.
“Ah,” Edgar replied sagely, “but these are England’s.” The corner of his mouth quirked upward when he clocked Jonathan frowning. “You can’t deny me a touch of sentimentalism on this of all trips.”
Jonathan thought it was less about sentiment than Edgar’s inborn need to document everything. The flat they kept in Berlin—the one which had seen the most of them, lately—more steadily resembled a private library with every passing day.
He said fondly, weariness at an undertone, “I’ve never quite been able to deny you anything.”
Then he held out the tea, which Edgar automatically took off his hands. He smiled with muted triumph when Edgar gingerly drew a sniff.
It was twenty minutes by underground to reach their lodgings, so they opted for the scenic route. Less faff. They skimmed the cobblestones from Camden to Westminster quick as smoke, familiar with the route because their hotel had been a hotel when they’d roamed these parts as mortals.
Were Jonathan travelling alone, he would’ve booked the cheapest room going. Edgar favoured five-star living when given a choice. The hotel had only leaned in to its reputation for exorbitance over the last hundred years, but it glittered and shone; you got what you paid for.
And what Jonathan had paid for was a room. Edgar had done the actual booking. Jonathan watched with precautionary despair while Edgar beamed forebodingly at the receptionist.
“I have a reservation,” Edgar announced, “under the name Geoffrey McCullum.”
That title meant nothing to the gentleman rifling for their room key, but he must’ve felt Edgar looked nothing like a Geoffrey, because he paused to review the pair who’d blown in from the night to darken his desk. He backed down when Edgar produced a driving licence affirming he was indeed of Celtic stock.
Once they’d checked in they made for the lift, Jonathan lowering his voice to a murmur. “Do you think you’re funny?”
“Terribly,” Edgar said, with the gall to shoot Jonathan an adoring look. “I thought it might earn a roll of your eyes, at least.”
“I felt one brewing.” Jonathan tapped the call button. “I’ll roll my eyes and more if it brings whatever Priwen remains out of the woodwork.”
He glanced over and saw Edgar smiling wistfully. “Wouldn’t that be nostalgic.”
The idea was to drop off their things at the hotel before sampling London’s nightlife. Jonathan had known there was a slim chance of it actually happening even while he’d been picking out venues. Edgar flouted best-laid plans as a general rule.
“I think we should stay in,” Edgar stated, in about the same breath as he dropped onto the bed. He went backwards like a felled statue.
“For our anniversary?” Jonathan said, voice low, supressing mirth. He left their suitcase by the door, tugging the knot of his tie loose as he moved closer to Edgar. “We must find some way to celebrate, surely?”
Edgar sprang up again, perching on the edge. The mattress rippled pleasingly. Jonathan let Edgar wrap a hand around the end of his tie, then pull it off entirely.
With an hour to go until dawn Edgar finally wanted to stray outside. Jonathan agreed, feeling aware—as he often did—that what he had with Edgar was less a pas de deux than the illusive experience of owning a cat.
They weren’t far from Regent’s Park, which had been and remained a singular green oasis in a borough of limestone. The gates were locked but there were lights around the perimeter, and upon deciding to follow the trail they fell into perfect step.
On every other rise their elbows brushed. Jonathan considered taking Edgar’s hand. Chances were they could get away with it here, to their audience of a lone jogger approaching from the distance. But a century of vigilance immobilised him. Not everywhere was as indifferent to the activities of its flock as the south of England.
“What are you thinking?” Jonathan ventured, when he turned his head and found Edgar in a rare pensive mood.
“I was thinking about what a pity it is,” Edgar said, “that we cannot visit the Pembroke. To see if the floor plan in my memory matches reality.”
“I suspect it wouldn’t,” Jonathan replied. Though it had a good innings after he and Edgar left, the hospital had long ago been sold off, converted into flats.
Edgar made a noise of concession. “Is it strange? Being back in this city. Perhaps it’s because I wasn’t born here, but I’ll admit I never quite had the same attachment to London.”
Attachment. Jonathan pondered the word. He supposed it was accurate, though not for the reason Edgar posited.
“London was home for the people I loved,” he said. “My mother—and Mary. That meant it was home for me.”
“I see,” Edgar said. “And now?”
Jonathan knew precisely what Edgar wanted to hear. But it had the additional benefit of being true. He paused anyway, deciding he was within his rights to amuse himself by making Edgar wait for it.
“My home,” he said, finally, “goes with you.”
Where Jonathan had favoured discretion, Edgar exercised no such caution. He linked his arm with Jonathan’s, and by an order of magnitude it felt more intimate than threading their fingers together.
The jogger passed them without so much as a glance.