Title: "Venice"

Fandom: Brideshead Revisited

Pairing: Sebastian Flyte [Anthony Andrews]/Charles Ryder [Jeremy Irons]

Author: MonaR. (aka Mona Ramsey, aka Mona)

Series: It's turning out that way; this is a sequel to "Sebastian", and I might write more.

Rating: PG.

Warnings: Non-explicit slash (m/m) content. I don't *think* there's anything particularly offensive in this.

Archive: Yes to RSA, CKOS, WWOMB, and/or anyone who would like it.

Notes: I don't use betas. :( Any mistakes are solely my fault and the fault of my *#^&@ spellcheck. ** is used for emphasis, // for thought. Any weird characters should be hunted down and killed.

Feedback: Yes if you're moved to write me by the story, no if you think that *unless* you write me, I won't write any more stories. Anyone with even a glancing knowledge of my posting history (this *is* my 400-and-something-th story) knows that isn't true. Feedback is gratefully accepted and responded to whenever possible. Flames are buried in the backyard, along with a few skeletons.

Spoilers: Yes. This is the trip to Venice that Charles and Sebastian took, including large chunks of dialogue.

Summary: Charles travels to Venice with Sebastian, and meets an unexpected soulmate.

{Finally writing my sequel to "Sebastian" - a story that I have grown fonder of, the farther away I get from it. Didn't like it at *all* when I first posted it, but I'm coming around. :) Of course, I'd still adore having some BR fic by someone else to read. . . *cough* *hint* *cough* Have I mentioned before how much I love first-person? I know it scares the hell out of some writers, but I *adore* it. It's absolutely impossible, and that's one of the reasons I love it so, I think. Such a delicious challenge.}

"Venice"

by MonaR.

There was something about spending time with Sebastian that brought out an air of sophistication in me, simply by association. By the time that summer we spent at Brideshead Castle was finished and we'd thoroughly immersed ourselves in wine and sunbathing and painting, I fancied that that air fit me very well indeed. It was as if we were brothers separated by some tragically romantic circumstance - that I had been to the manor born as well, instead of the son of a ordinary common man. Perhaps my mother had been widowed from her true love while I was still waiting to be born, and had been thrust at Edward Ryder by her scandalized family in an arranged marriage meant merely to save face; perhaps my real family was looking for me somewhere, waiting to welcome their prodigal son with open arms and pocketbook.

When Sebastian told me he'd decided that I was to go to Venice with him, I was elated. I'd never been to Italy; except for an educational trip to France when I was in school, I'd never even been out of the country. I was thrilled to be going with him, in no small part because the thought of returning to my father's house for the rest of the summer and resuming our games of one-upmanship - which he would never acknowledge that we were playing - was utterly disheartening to me. Partly, of course, it was just to be with Sebastian; when I was around him, some of his golden aura struck me, and reflected some of that shining brilliance onto me.

I hadn't really thought about what meeting Sebastian's father might mean. Almost everything I knew about the man consisted of pieced-together tidbits of gossip gleaned from Anthony Blanche, or Boy Mulcaster, although Sebastian filled in a few of the blank spaces before we were to meet. I knew about the scandalous relationship with the former dancer that had sent the Brideshead patriarch away from England and his family; I suppose I thought that I would be meeting a lecherous old man, with a beautiful, yet slightly tarnished woman on his arm. I don't even know that I thought about it that much. I'd never known a mistress before, and I didn't really separate that particular category of women from the prostitutes that some of my friends frequented.

The fair sex was still a happy mystery to me at that time; my mother had been dead for years, and when my aunt was driven away by my father's eccentricities and I was sent to a school where the matron was the only female figure in my life, I grew up surrounded by boys and men. Sebastian's sisters were the closest I'd yet come to studying women at any length; Cordelia was too young for me to pay much attention to, despite her pious concern over my lack of religious fervour. Julia, on the other hand, was something quite different. She *was* very like Sebastian, but she blew in and out of the manor with little regularity that summer; sometimes it was only the slightly disturbing linger of her perfume in the air that signalled to me that she had once again been and gone, probably come to visit Nanny Hawkins for an hour or two of cards and conversation. She did that at least once a week, but never at the same time; I was as happy as she to have taken over the 'care' of Sebastian as he recovered from his 'dire injury', and happier still that Julia left us alone.

The trip to Venice itself was uneventful; Sebastian bore my chatter on the train heroically, but the closer we came to our destination, the longer his silences grew. I'm ashamed to admit now that I didn't pay as close attention to Sebastian's subtly darkening mood as I should have, nor to the increasing amount of wine that he was drinking. It all seemed a very gay escapade to me, and I was absorbed in my surroundings and in my friend only to the extent that we were a couple on a grand adventure.

**********

Lord Marchmain in person was a disappointment to all of my romantic notions; his studied normality and utterly proper Englishness - despite the fact that he professed to loathe everything English, and, I suspect, truly *did* - were not what I expected from him. Perhaps a subtly debauched air would have suited my fancies better, but he exclaimed none of that. I believe he knew within an hour of our meeting that my relationship with his son was closer than that of a good chum, although he was far too fastidious to make any remark about it. I wondered at the fact that the hallway door to my bedroom in Lord Marchmain's leased Venetian palace did not shut completely until I discovered that Sebastian had specifically requested that I be given that room, ostensibly for the very pretty view it offered. In actual fact, it made it far easier for him to creep into my rooms at night, with a pilfered bottle of cold champagne, or iced coffee and a handful of biscotti that the ill-used chef of the palace was more than happy to provide him. I'm certain that both Lord Marchmain and Cara must have heard the echoes of our early-morning laughter in that palace, although nothing was ever said to either of us about it.

Cara was a revelation to me; she was the first mature woman in my life who both treated me as an intelligent person of some worth and took me under her wing as a surrogate son. In myself I believe Cara found a kindred spirit, and as we walked through the many churches and galleries that we explored in those few weeks, I knew that the escape provided by our rounds of sight-seeing were as revitalizing for her as they were for me. Sebastian came with us because I was there, and because he was fascinated by the endless displays of baroque Catholicism Venice had produced over the centuries. The baron, our guide, was quite obviously eager to make a favourable impression upon Cara, and unflaggingly led us from place to place, away from the well-worn paths of other English tourists, into the crooks and corners of Venice that had long been neglected by less discerning eyes than our own. Cara and I, however, travelled for the love of being alive at that moment; we drank in the sights around us and smiled secretly at each other whenever we knew that we had found something truly beautiful. Most of the time, we spoke without words, and were happy.

Lord Marchmain did not care to dine out in the evenings, and although Cara joined Sebastian and I twice a week and sometimes more frequently than that, she also left us alone together more often than not. We ate in several bad and quite a few very good restaurants, drank too much wine and brandy, and wobbled our way home over the bridges that spanned the canals. Little had changed except for our surroundings; we continued our education of wines to include native Italian varieties that added to our palates, spoiled by a summer of mostly French vintages. Those evenings seemed to soften Sebastian's moods, and he regained the lovely glowing softness and gentility of character that so I adored about him. The change of venue emboldened us, as well, perhaps foolishly at times. I especially remember a half-hour trip from our restaurant to the palace that stretched to more than two hours one evening, as we drifted in our gondola and stared at the stars, arms wrapped around one another, sharing occasional kisses in the moonlight. In England, such a display would have been unthinkable, except at school; in Venice, it was practically a requirement for two lovers such as we, on a Continental jaunt.

**********

The days of our trip slipped through my fingers like sand, as had the summer as a whole; too soon, it was our last day in Venice. Sebastian went off to play tennis with his father in the afternoon, while I stayed behind in the palace with Cara, leaving the two men alone together for what might be their last visit in a year or more. For the first time since I'd met her, Cara seemed worn down and tired; she was more than content to sit in the drawing room with her sewing, the different coloured skeins of cotton separated neatly on her lap, as I watched the boats floating along in the canal and the distant flashes of lightning from one of the tall windows.

We stayed together in a comfortable silence that stretched longer and longer. I did not expect her to speak, and when she did, I could not, even in my wildest dreams, have predicted what she would say.

"I think you're very fond of Sebastian."

I had no idea that there was any doubt about that; I had never taken any trouble to hide my affection for him, while we were there. I often found myself with my arms around him, even in Cara's presence, even in his father's; it was as natural for me to do that as it was to breathe. "Certainly," I said.

She continued with her needlepoint as she spoke. "I know of these romantic friendships of the English and the Germans. They are not Latin. I think they're very good - if they don't go on too long. It's a kind of love that comes to children before they know its meaning. In England, it comes a little later; when you are almost men. I think I like that. I think it's better to have this first kind of love for a boy than for a girl. Alex, you see, had it for a girl - his wife." She looked up at me before she asked, "Do you think he loves me?"

I didn't know what to say to that question; I did not want to admit to her that I knew nothing of the love between men and women. I'd seen none of it between my parents or other relatives, and the same was true with my observations of Sebastian's family. "Really, Cara," I replied, almost blushing, "you do ask the most embarrassing questions. How should I know?" I shrugged. "I assume - "

"He does not," she said, calmly, without missing a stitch in her work. "But not the littlest piece." Her eyes rose to my face, to discern whether or not I believed her.

I was astonished. "But then why does he stay with you?"

"Because I protect him from Lady Marchmain," she said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for Sebastian's father to need protecting from his wife. "He hates her. But you can have no conception how he hates her. My friend, he is a volcano of hate. He can't breathe the same air as she. He won't set foot in England because it's her home. He can scarcely be happy with Sebastian because he's her son. But," she added, "Sebastian hates her, too."

"Oh, no," I protested, morbidly fascinated by this extraordinary conversation. "I think you're wrong, there."

"He may not admit it to you," she allowed. "He may not admit it to himself. They are full of hate; hate of themselves. Alex and his family. And how has she deserved all of this hate? She has done nothing, except to be loved by someone who was not grown-up. When people hate with all that energy, it is something in themselves that they are hating. Alex is hating all of the illusions of boyhood: innocence, God, hope. Sebastian is in love with his own childhood. That will make him very unhappy. His teddy bear, his nanny. And he is nineteen years old."

Her tone was very mild, hardly scolding, but her words made me run hot and cold inside. I could not hate her for what she said, although part of me desperately wanted to. I knew that although she had not spoken the words aloud, I had been equated, in her mind, with the rest of Sebastian's boyhood 'toys', and, along with Aloysius and Nanny Hawkins, that she felt that what he and I shared was nothing more than a grasping on to our waning youth. I suppose I could not hate her because some part of me understood the truth in her words, as harsh as they were. It made sense to me that Sebastian should hate his mother for what she had done - in his mind, in any case - to their family, in driving away Lord Marchmain. It did not matter to Sebastian that happiness was all illusions; it was what he wanted, and what I wanted at the time, and it was good enough for us.

She smiled at me as though she knew what I was thinking, and said, "How good it is to sit in the shade and talk of love."

I laughed, as I was meant to, and stood when she suggested that we go and find Sebastian and his father. I found my coat and an umbrella, and we left the palace.

**********

Sebastian was walking barefoot along the edge of the surf when Cara and I arrived at the tennis club; Lord Marchmain was sitting under the awning, a barely-touched cocktail in front of him, watching his son and the sea with equal curiosity. It was obvious by his slight unsteadiness that Sebastian had already been drinking more than he should have. I was unsurprised, of course; it was a regular past-time for us in the late afternoons, but that he should have been doing so without me gave me a previously-unknown spark of concern.

It was Cara who voiced my thoughts, when she saw the frown on my face. "Sebastian drinks too much."

"I suppose we both do," I said, with what I hoped was a disarming smile.

"Oh, with you it doesn't matter," she said, dismissively. "I have watched you together. With Sebastian, it is different. He'll become a drunkard if someone doesn't come to stop him. I've known so many. Alex was nearly a drunkard when I met him. It's in the blood. I see it in the way Sebastian drinks. It is not your way."

I should have been comforted by her words; they were almost certainly meant to be a comfort to me. Once again, she was pointing out the truth to me, however, and showing me the different forks in the road that were spreading out in front of me. I drank because it brought me closer to Sebastian and his world, and because I enjoyed it, but for Sebastian himself, it was something quite different. It was almost as if he drank because he *needed* to; because it gave him something that nothing - or no-one - else could, but whether that something was a respite from his everyday life or an entry into an alternative, happier world, I do not know. I knew that Cara was right, and that someone *should* come between Sebastian and his drinking, and help him, but I also knew that that would be a difficult job, and while it might earn whoever took up the task some heavenly reward, it might also earn the eternal enmity of Sebastian himself. I knew that I could do it - or at least try - and perhaps succeed, or perhaps lose my friend, my lover. I knew also that I could stand by and do nothing, just watch, and hope, and perhaps keep him with me always. I am ashamed to admit that the choice was not a difficult one for me to make.

Cara and I parted ways; she ducking under the awning and greeting Lord Marchmain with a kiss on the cheek as she took her place at his side, I striding across the sand, weaving around the tourists scurrying for shelter and the half-dressed Italian boys in their swimming costumes striding in from the white-capped sea. I walked to Sebastian with the umbrella over my head, and clasped him about the shoulders, and watched the storm-tossed waters, and tried to think of nothing.

I have looked back at that picture of the two of us in my mind many times over the years; it is one of my favourite memories. I tell myself that I should have known, at the time - and simultaneously know that I couldn't possibly have known that it would be the last moment in my life where I could claim true and simple happiness. It is a moment that normally would only be pointed to at the end of a life and labelled thus; I may have many years left, but I know with absolute certainty that that is one label that I will never shift to another memory.

The End
MonaR.