I both loved and dreaded Wednesdays. It was the day of our literature seminars. For each Wednesday, we were assigned a piece of writing to read, which was fun in itself. So far, it had been different British classics. And this Wednesday was no exception. The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde.

One of the few I had actually read beforehand as it was the book which made me fall in love with writing and story-telling.

I hated the idea of discussing it with my course mates, however. They twisted things around in such a way that they had even managed to make the intriguing story of Frankenstein seem like something dull.

A part of me wanted to call in sick simply to avoid having them destroy the book. But just the idea had made me nauseous with guilt. So I sat there, in the slightly too cramped room, which smelled of old furniture, and just prayed I'd still love the book when I left three hours later.

After two and a half hours, well, I still loved the book, but I disliked certain classmates even more.

One of the most vocal had spent the past twenty minutes explaining how what Wilde was trying to say with the book was that what we see in a piece of art really reveals something within us. As such, he went on to say, if we were to find art disgusting or similar, it likely rather said something about the values we had.

He talked about it with such gusto, and I had to look down at my desk to not roll my eyes at him. It wasn't that I disagreed. In fact, I wholeheartedly agreed with everything he said. Except the smugness he used to tell his points as if it was a completely original thought no one had ever thought before.

My real issue with his rant came when he talked about the immoral life Dorian lived and how it destroyed him.

Within that he said, "an example of corruptive and disgusting parts which leads to his end is the immoral relationships between him, Basil, and Henry."

As I heard it, I looked up from the doodle I'd been passing my time with. I expected to see more people looking as aghast as I felt. I expected the professor to at least have a frown on his face. But no. Everyone sat there and calmly continued listening, or not listening, as I was certain at least half had begun daydreaming considering how their eyes were on the windows.

I raised my hand.

Well, at least that got the professor's attention.

"Thank you, Dereck, for your thoughts," the professor interrupted the other student. "But we have to hear from the rest as well." Then he waved his hand for me to talk.

"I just made an observation during Dereck's analysis," I began. The rest of the group looked to have woken up by the change of speaker and I held all of their attention, something that often could rattle me, but now I was rather happy to know they would all hear what I had to say. "He argued the novel says that what we see when we look at a piece of art is rather a reflection of ourselves. That how we see and interpret the art reveals more about ourselves than the art. A point which I full-heartedly agree with." The idiot had the ignorance of giving me a smug smile. For a second, I relished in how it likely would twist with my next point. Not particularly kind of me, but he didn't deserve kindness. "But I can't help but relate it to the next part of what Dereck said. He talked about Dorian's immoral behaviour. Among it he called the homosexual relationships implied in the novel corruptive and disgusting. I think we can all agree the novel is a piece of art. So I wonder what Dereck then would say his interpretation of those relationships reveals about him. Other than bigotry."

There was complete silence in the room, but the looks on everyone's faces spoke louder than any words could have, anyway. The anger rolling off Dereck. The squirming discomfort of some. The somewhat awed stunnedness of the others. The professor's frown on me.

"I think we'll end today's discussion there," the professor decided, still with his eyes fully on me. "Alasdair, if you'll stay."

And so I sat put as everyone else left while throwing glances at me or, in Dereck's case, glares. When it was just me and the professor left, he went into a monologue about how I should stay quiet during the seminars and then talk to him afterwards if I find something someone says offensive. I didn't exactly listen to him, though. Just focused on swallowing my anger and indignation.

Dereck was the one who had said something wrong. Dereck was the one who deserved a talking to. But it would have been dumb of me to voice that. It would only make the professor even more upset with me. So as unfair as it was, as much as it made me angrier, I swallowed all of my feelings down, instead of telling him that though we had been talking about Oscar Wilde, society had evolved a lot since then and it was ridiculous that some still mirrored the beliefs of almost a hundred years ago.

When I was dismissed, I readied myself for anything I could possibly meet outside. Dereck and a mob ready to attack and beat me up. Or an empty hall because no one had actually cared so deeply about what I had said. But though I was prepared for those two extremes, I still raised an eyebrow.

"Are you alright, Alasdair? It's so unfair of him to keep you back like that. Should have been Dereck," a girl said. She had strawberry blonde hair, big round eyes, and I vaguely remembered her name was Kenna. We hadn't ever really spoken, though we were in the same group for the weekly feedback sessions we had. The only thing I could remember about her was that she had written a short story about a cat, which someone had compared to Edgar Allan Poe's The Black Cat and then thrown in some Freud as well. I had rather thought it was about the silent people in a group and how much they managed to observe and know about others simply by listening more than speaking.

We hadn't really exchanged a single word. Definitely not enough to prompt the worry swirling in her eyes.

"I'm all fine," I answered her and started walking down the corridor. She fell into steps next to me.

"I think it was very brave of you to speak up like that," she went on to say. "You were completely right."

"Thanks," I answered, feeling very unsure about what she was getting at, why she was talking to me all of a sudden.

"Ehm, I was wondering," she looked down as if she needed to take care of where she placed her feet on the flat floor, "if you, you know, swing in that direction?"

I frowned. Not at all getting what she meant. "Swing in that direction?"

Her cheeks went red, and she cast me a glance before looking to the floor again and mumbling, "Homosexual."

I stopped in my tracks just staring at her. What in the name of whisky made her ask that? Not that it was wrong to be. Not in the slightest. Errol had told me I would find him disgusting before telling me he was, but that had never crossed my mind. Every time my insecurities ran high or similar, he'd tell me I would always just be me to him. And it was the same the other way around. Errol would always be Errol to me, no matter who he slept with.

So no, I wasn't shocked, and honestly a bit annoyed, by her question because I thought there was something wrong with being gay. But what the question implied, however, was that the only reason I'd go into such a defence of homosexuality was that I was one myself.

It irked me. Wasn't it just the decent thing to do?

"I'm sorry," she rushed to say. Her cheeks were even redder and now her eyes carried panic as if an army stood before her, ready to attack. "That's such a personal question and not any of my business."

"No," I answered in a flat voice.

"No?"

"I'm not gay."

I continued walking and when I was a few steps ahead of her, she scrambled to catch up.

"I'm sorry I asked. I really am. I shouldn't have," she continued to apologise. The panic was still there in her eyes, and I sighed.

"Don't worry about it. I'm not upset," I told her and saw the panic turn to relief.

"I'm still sorry."

"If you apologise one more time, then I might become upset," I smirked at her.

"I'm sorry I won't..." she started, then clasped her hands over her mouth as she realised she just apologised again.

I laughed as we stepped outside. Though she had been somewhat intrusive, she was quite cute.

My laugh seemed to lessen any residual worry from her as she smiled back at me. Then she tugged some of her hair behind her ear and looked to the ground yet again.

"Actually, Alasdair, I was wondering if you're busy or if you'd want to go to a café and work on our upcoming writing assignment together?" she asked, but I barely heard her.

Outside the literature centre, there was some green space with a few trees. They had yet to shed their leaves and, therefore, still threw shadows on the lawn. In one of those shadows, he sat leaning against the trunk of a tree with a book in hand.

I hadn't noticed at the restaurant, probably because it had been drawn back, but he had let his hair grow a bit longer. It had always been on the unruly side, but now it hung so I couldn't properly see his facial features as his head was tilted down to read. But other than that, he was exactly the same as ever. He wore jeans and a hoodie, looking completely at ease as if nothing could ever bother him.

Grounded and strong. Stable enough to venture any storm.

"Alasdair?" Kenna said next to me, and I snapped my head back to look at her and processed the question she had asked me. In the corner of my eyes, I noticed Errol looking up from his book.

"Sorry, got plans," I answered her. "I'll see you in class."

Then I left her to walk over to Errol. By the time I reached him, he had put away the book in a backpack and had stood.

"What ye doin' here?" I asked him. Some of his hair was in the way of his eyes, and my fingers itched to brush it away. It wouldn't have been appropriate, though. And I was sure Errol would have found the gesture annoying.

"Thought we might want some time to talk just ye an' me," he answered and swept the hair out of his face himself so I could see those gentle brown eyes. He then turned and started walking away. As he noticed I wasn't following, he smiled back at me. "Come on," he said, nodding for me to catch up.

Such a simple sentence, but those two words made me feel as if I was Atlas, who had just been relieved of his burden.

We walked around town, filling each other in on our lives. He told me how when he had first come to Edinburgh, he had lived in a crappy apartment, which barely even had walls, and worked flipping burgers. Things had turned for him when he by chance had met Cameron, who had been drunk looking for food to sober him up. Cameron had got him his current job, and had also helped him with finding a better place to live.

I mainly told him about how I found the writing programme. Of everything which had happened before I moved to Edinburgh, I just mentioned I had broken up with Flora without giving the reason. He didn't need to know how awful everyone in the village spoke of him. So I focused on the positive parts of the writing programme, as well as telling him Airlia was pregnant. By his simple nod to that, it was clear he and Airlia spoke on the phone often enough for her to already have had time to tell him.

We had walked to a park. I didn't know Edinburgh enough to be sure what park, but despite the fine weather, it was rather empty. We sat on a bench and our words had run out. My heart was hammering in my chest, however, because there was something I needed to tell him. Something I wasn't sure I was brave enough to say. But this was Errol. He was my courage, so if there was anyone I'd dare to say anything to, it was him.

"I'm sorry," I blurted out. He had been looking at a few squirrels climbing a nearby tree, but turned to focus completely on me. "Both for everythin' before an' for bargin' back into yer life."

That gentle smile. Those gentle eyes. Like a blanket wrapping me up during winter.

"Ye don't need to apologise for everythin' from before," he told me. "It was never yer fault in any way."

"I should have seen! I should have known!" I refuted him, but he just smiled and shook his head.

"I did everythin' I could to hide it from ye. Frankly, my plan was for ye to never find out. An' as for bargin' back into my life..." He went silent for a bit. Watched the squirrels for a moment. Then he continued. "I'll be honest with ye. After I understood ye planned to come, I wasn't sure how I felt about it. I wasn't completely sure that day either. But I'm happy ye did. I've missed ye."

I felt warm and fuzzy, like I did after drinking a couple of whiskys. But just like when you drank, a part of me worried about the future hangover. He looked happy. He smiled and everything. But I wasn't sure if I could trust him, trust the happiness. I had spent so many years thinking he was happy when he had, in fact, been in pain. Maybe it was the same now? Maybe he was hiding his pain again?

"Are ye sure?" I therefore asked him. "Ye're not just sayin' that while really bein' upset about it?"

He ruffled my hair and seemed genuinely happy as he said, "I'm sure. I really am."

And with that, I decided to stay in the warm and fuzzy feeling. Decided to believe the hangover wouldn't be so great if it ever came.

"So, friends again?" I asked.

"We'll always be friends," he answered.

The world was completely lifted off me, and I leaned my head to his shoulder like I had done a million times before.