Page 81 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

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The castle is illuminated by a soft violet glow upon its rocky crag. Rory leads me toward it, pointing out a small brass telescope at the very edge of the roof terrace. He gestures for me to use it, and with my eye to the lens, I can make out every brick, every ancient stone, that went into creating a city fortress so beautiful.

The rest of the city vibrates with life. I can pick out people’s faces, rushed off their feet but happy, either so accustomed to the existence of a giant castle in the center of their city, or so amazed that they need to stop and take awkwardly angled peace-sign selfies.

It seems strange, in a way, that the rest of the world ticks on as usual. In my own selfish head, I’d imagined here — this very rooftop — to be the epicenter of the universe. My feelings are so huge, so engulfing, so rare, for the boys on this roof that it seems impossible for there to be seven billion others out there with alltheirfeelings too, not when I must be in possession of all emotions that have ever existed.

Maybe this is just how it feels… to feel. Like treading water, like trying not to drown.

I’m not used to it.

Rory plants a gentle kiss against the side of my head, sparking yet more emotion inside me. It’s never-ending. An onslaught. My stomach flutters, contracting and expanding like a sponge, soaking up every new smile that radiates from Rory’s mouth, the dark glimmer in his silver eyes.

“Ruairidh,” I say, testing it out,roo-ray, and he gives me a quizzical look. “What does it mean?”

His mouth twists ever so slightly, and with an arrogant kind of flair, he answers, “King.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Does it really?”

“It means the same thing as Rory but it’s the name my mother originally picked for me.” He gazes out across the skyline. “She must have had high hopes for me.”

“It’s pretty.”

“So am I,” Rory says, and this comment is so unexpected, such a strange, semi-drunken comment, that I burst out laughing.

After a moment, Rory joins in. His laugh is dark but clear, and I realize how rarely I’ve heard it. It seems like only yesterday his laughter was a sneered, bitter thing. But now it’s genuine. Now it’s the real him he’s showing me.

“Why don’t you use Ruairidh?”

He shrugs, gazing out off into the distance. “Mispronunciations galore. The fact that no one can spell it.” This sounds dismissive. If I know one thing about Rory — and I know many — it’s that if Rory has his heart set on something, he’ll force the entire world to bend to his will. After a moment, he adds, “It’s a contentious name. It’stooCeltic. It’stoopolitical. It’d raise more unhelpful questions than a name like Rory ever could.”

I think about this with some sadness. What’s in a name? But then I rememberRuairidhsteadfastly appearing on his bedroom door. “But in private…”

He drops his mouth to the shell of my ear and whispers darkly, “In private, I can do whatever the hell I like, little saint.”

Even though it isn’t cold, a thousand little shivers scatter down my spine. The air is balmy. In fact, it’s practically tropical for Scotland. But there’s something about the glittering intensity in Rory’s words, in his expression, that makes me lose my place in the world.

“You should laugh more often,” I murmur, feeling brave as I trace the small, beating corner of his mouth with the tips of my fingers. “You look good.”

Automatically, he draws my finger into his warm mouth and a hook yanks me from behind my navel. He nips my knuckles with his teeth before laving the area softly with his tongue. My finger drops from his lips with a sucky, wet pop. Red marks are imprinted on my skin and I gaze down at them in awe.

I glance back at the others to see if anyone noticed. But Finlay is furiously peeling apart a naan, Luke is idly checking his phone, and Danny is lying horizontally on the bench, staring up at the stars.

“I don’t know what to do,” Rory says in a solemn voice, following my gaze. “My best friends are at war, I’m caught between two different ideologies, and I don’t know which way to turn.”

“That awkward moment when you realize your dad’s a political dictator, huh?” Perhaps the flippancy is unwarranted, I think to myself, placing a hand on Rory’s arm. But has Oscar Munro done anything good, ever? As well as the country, he’s successfully managed to fuck up his relationship with his father-adoring son. “He’s been dictating your whole life. No wonder you don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t understand,” Rory growls. “You don’t get to swan into my life and assume you know the measure of it.”

“But I do,” I say with a giddy laugh, amazed at the idea I could know as little of Rory’s life as he imagines. As if.As ifI haven’t been watching him avidly since the day we first met.As ifI don’t know the precise meanings behind the angled tilts of his head. The expression on his face when he wants the world to leave him alone, when he wants someone’s ass handed to him, the hunger in his eyes when he wants to kiss me. The sharpness of his mouth when he issues a direct order, the gentleness in his tone when he speaks with Luke, the callousness when he’s with Finlay.

It sounds stalkery and weird and obviously I’d never admit it aloud, but I know Rory as well as my lungs know how to breathe. It’s obvious, basic stuff for my body and its neural pathways to understand. I could write books on him, on how to decipher the exact shade of gray in his eyes.

I’m in deep. Too deep to swim back up to the surface.

“Your dad has manipulated you into this position, into being against your fellow chiefs.He’sthe one to blame.”

“So what would you do?” Rory asks me, serious, and for the first time I sense the value he’s placing on my answer. I feel the weight and the expectation of those gray eyes on me, the need for the world to right itself in the words I speak next.

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