The costumes were going to be beautiful, Andrew could say that much. He really didn’t have time to linger in the backstage area -- the rapidly approaching rehearsal dates meant there were rapidly increasing amounts of work he should be doing -- but he couldn’t help himself. He was standing backstage, looking at Orsino’s nearly-finished jewelled doublet and dark green hose on a headless mannequin, when he felt an arm wind suddenly around him. He was pressed up against a strong chest, and a familiar voice murmured, “Is that mine?” into his ear, so low and intimate it took Andrew’s breath away.

“Oliver.” Oliver loosened his hold enough for Andrew to face him. He looked good. Better even than when they’d parted in the autumn. His hair was longer, and he was wearing a leather jacket and jeans, a corduroy messenger bag slung over his shoulder. Andrew barely had the time to take him in before he was being wrapped in a two-armed hug. It was warm and solid and, stupidly, Andrew felt tears pricking the corners of his eyes.

It was stupid. It wasn’t like Oliver was Andrew’s only friend. Andrew wasn’t some kind of a recluse. He had workmates. He went for the occasional drink with the casting director Charlotte and the theater director, Rick. He was on friendly terms with his ex-boyfriend Mike, who worked in a souvenir shop during the summers and spent most of the winters writing an epic series of fantasy novels that had yet to find a publisher. Andrew even had a barrel load of cousins in the area, many of whom would be happy to meet up for a pint if he asked them to, although he never asked. But Oliver felt different. Oliver always felt different.

Andrew held on until it seemed like it was getting too long. Even then, he kept it up a moment longer. He was still the first to pull away, something that was going to fuck with his head if he let it. He resolved not to.

“How’s Emma?” he said.

Oliver shrugged, like he was asking after some vague acquaintance. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on Andrew’s part. “She’s fine. It’s great to see you.” Oliver was grinning so widely, it felt like looking at the sun. That was the thing with Oliver. Everything he said seemed so genuine. When he said he was happy to see you, you knew he meant it. If Andrew was feeling philosophical, he might put it down to Oliver being an actor. Maybe if your entire job was to look convincing, to sell emotions you didn’t feel, the skill bled over into your personal life, but Andrew didn’t think that was it. He’d met plenty of actors that had no problem expressing how they truly felt about something. He’d heard their complaints about their schedules, their dressing rooms, their accommodations often enough to prove it.

“Want to go for a cup of tea?” Andrew offered.

“Maybe a walk?” Oliver suggested instead.

It wasn’t exactly balmy, but the sea in early May wasn’t as angry as it was in the winter. Since the rain had stopped, at least for a while, a few of the braver surfers were out, dressed in wetsuits to keep from perishing from hypothermia. Oliver and Andrew walked down the beach until they reached the spot Andrew liked best, a little corner sheltered by large rocks. It was far enough up that the tide never reached it. The sand was dry enough to sit on. Andrew did that, as Oliver reached into his messenger bag and pulled something out.

“Here. I owe you this.” It was a slice of fruit cake sealed in a plastic wrapper. “Not the greatest, but it was all I could get on the train. I thought I could buy you supper tonight to make up for it.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Is that chippy open yet? The one we liked?”

“You mean the one with your favourite mushy peas?”

“That’s the one. Best peas I’ve ever had.”

“I think so. I haven’t --” I haven’t been there without you. The seasonal fish and chip restaurant had closed soon after Oliver left anyway, but it would have felt strange to go without him even if he’d had the opportunity. He and Oliver had eaten there almost every night for the last month of Cyrano. Andrew couldn’t remember why, exactly. Apart from Oliver’s beloved peas, there was nothing particularly special about the place, but he’d loved the ritual of it.

“Thanks for the cake.” He pulled open the wrapper and took a bite.

Oliver made a face. “Is it dry as fuck? You can tell me, I won’t be offended. Well, maybe just a little. But I won’t let it affect our friendship. Much.”

“It’s --” Andrew swallowed and immediately wished he had some water. “Fine,” he croaked.

Oliver laughed so loudly he scared a seagull. It took off, squawking indignantly. He reached into his bag again and produced a bottle of Fanta. He popped open the cap and gave the bottle to Andrew. Andrew tried to sip it casually, rather than gulping like a man who had just crawled through the desert to an oasis. When he was sufficiently rehydrated to put the bottle down, he found Oliver still looking at him. “It’s really great to see you, Andy,” he said. Oliver took the bottle and drank from it without even pausing to wipe off the top. Andrew refused to let that affect him in any way whatsoever.