Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Clive kissed Maurice’s hand, he hoped that it would be the last time he would ever have to do that. He saw it as a way of saying goodbye to his love for Maurice — as a way to depart his feelings. However, he would be horribly wrong. Even when Clive married Anne, his desires still lingered and he felt oh so ashamed. He thought marrying Anne would grant him the chance to finally live a normal life.

After Maurice had confessed that he had feelings for Alec Scudder, Clive felt a multitude of emotions. Shock, pity, sorrow, and most especially, anger. He didn’t feel anger towards Maurice or even Scudder. He felt anger towards himself, for letting Maurice slip away from his fingers. He knew he had a chance to romance Maurice if his shame and frightfulness hadn’t gotten in the way.

Clive wistfully gazed out his window before shutting up the blinds. In his mind, he was imagining— no, visioning what his life could have been. He hates himself every second of the day, regretting that he pushed Maurice away that one day. But he doesn’t or can’t admit it to himself. He doesn't allow himself to believe that he is unhappy with Anne. He doesn’t allow himself to believe that he still yearns for Maurice.

Anne crept up behind him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Who were you talking to?”
Clive regained his attention, managing a small exhale and a weak smile before responding, “No one, no one. I was just trying out a speech.”
He looked down, before glancing back up. He closed the shutter, then pulled the curtains to cover the window. Clive smiled once again at his wife before getting dressed for bed.

He slid on his sleepwear, attempting to shake off the thought of Maurice and Scudder together. Clive took a glance of his beautiful wife in his bed, taking note of how lucky he is. How lucky he is to have such a woman in the palm of his hand. Yet, his mind drifted off back to Maurice.

The times they shared when they were in Cambridge. When Maurice kissed him before crawling back out of his dorm window. When Maurice caressed his hair. When Maurice held him tight in bed. He remembered his eyes that resembled deep, cold pools of water that would sink ships. Clive felt sick when he thought of Alec doing these with his oh, beloved Maurice.

Speaking of ships, he had thought Alec was leaving for his boat. He was wrong — According to Maurice, Scudder had risked his new life in Argentina to be with him. This boiled him with jealousy. He vowed to himself he could do that and much more, but he humbled himself when he realized he didn’t. Clive had a chance to, yet he didn’t.

His train of thought was interrupted when Anne wrapped her arm around his torso, holding him closer. Clive bit his tongue, decided to be grateful for what he had, and embraced Anne back by putting his hand on hers.

Morning arrived faster than usual. Clive woke up, noticing Anne’s arm wasn’t around him anymore. She had turned to the other side, fast asleep. He got up and headed over to the bathroom to get freshened up for the day.

Once he was done, he walked out onto the balcony for some fresh air. Opening the doors, he felt a light gust of wind hit his face immediately. However, Clive decided to stay. He had found comfort in the chilly breeze and in the early birds chirping. It wasn't until he rubbed his eyes that he saw a figure creeping out in the woods. A very familiar figure.

He was in disbelief. Were his eyes tricking him? Maurice? His Maurice? Perhaps Scudder did leave him in Argentina, and Maurice had been mistaken. He was selfish for these thoughts, indeed, but he couldn't help but feel enlightenment. A grin crept up on his face as he rubbed his eyes again.

There he was. Gone. Oh God. His yearning had gotten so terrible that he started hallucinating. Maybe he had gotten sick with a fatal illness, and maybe that is what started his homosexuality. Perhaps so. He blamed his… attraction on Maurice. If Maurice had never been at Cambridge, Clive would never have felt this way. That’s what he kept telling himself all these years, and even now.

He accepted that Maurice would never come crawling back to him as he hoped. That he would never show up on his doorstep on a random Monday morning. He would never feel his touch or kisses again because that all now belonged to Scudder.
“Dammed Scudder,” Clive muttered to himself.
He walked back inside, shut the doors, and walked back into his bedroom where his wife lay.

It will never, ever be the same way it had been.