S-Curve, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Slash
Original Sophie's reflections on her entire dang life and her brother.
She might have thought of it as an arc, as a sort of S-curve or some other scholastic thing, the kind of thing they would expect her to say. In those charming days just before everything was run by machines-the days when Ruth’s little diner was new and its owner was young, days of hairspray and malls and sweatshirts-in those days it would have been called a PDA or TMI or some other funny little acronym. Whatever she called it, it had become a part of her life following an S-curve.
It was hard to tell which one tended to start it, though it looked like Julian had become a complete tease at some point-what a bizarre notion! Her little brother (though he was older and taller than she, she could think of him as nothing else) trying to provoke poor Richmond into shoving him against a wall and kissing him like that. Every time it happened she kept walking and an instant later they’d join her again, Julian chattering and skipping ahead as he always did, Richmond moving quietly at her side. She pretended not to notice that Julian’s shirt was suddenly untucked and slipping out from beneath his sweater or that Richmond’s perfect hair was not parted in the same ruler-straight line. She was sure they knew she saw these things, but she said nothing and neither did they.
It had started that day-years ago now, though it was getting harder to tell-that Richmond had come to her, breathless, his back covered in the purplish dust of Arquellain 3, and told her that she was his girlfriend. She’d shrugged and agreed - “If you want,” those had been her exact words - and that had been the end of it. He’d never even tried to hold her hand. In fact, all that changed was the way he acted toward Julian, refusing to go anywhere (especially Arquellain 3) unless Sophie came along. He had all but driven her mad, following her and robbing her of any of her alone time. She loved to sit on the library floor with her back against the armchair and a book open in her lap, listening to the hum of machinery that kept the entire manor running under one aging caretaker, but during those weeks, the weeks where some ancient idea of wrongness had haunted poor Richmond, he was constantly sitting across from her, the boredom evident in his wandering blue eyes. She had always thought of him as a silent, graceful thing, but in those weeks his breathing had been deafening.
That had been the bottom of it, the flat part of the S-curve. The rapid ascension had begun with another day on Arquellain 3 and another game of hide-and-seek. She had been surprised at how unsurprising it was to find the two boys in a tangle of arms and legs in the dust. It even seemed natural for Julian to be the one pinned, for Richmond (her boyfriend, she had thought with a smirk) to be straddling him, hands-already slender and white, though he couldn’t have been more than fifteen-on either side of Julian’s face. They hadn’t seen her there at first; she watched Julian’s fingers move across Richmond’s back and sides until the boys had finally broken the kiss and rolled apart, their clothes coated in the lavender dust, neither of them meeting her gaze as though they expected her to chastise them. Julian was practically trembling with glee but kept his eyes on the toes of his trainers. Sophie could feel the ecstasy of his thoughts and a lot of emotion toward Richmond that she knew was not her own, the same things she had felt since they had met the other boy. So why was her brother feigning shame? “You’re both it,” Sophie had said; identical relief had broken across their faces.
They had been on the swings that first day, each trying to stretch higher than the other. Julian had had an obvious advantage, long-legged even so young-he had been nine then, nearly seven years before the kiss-and was clearly winning when they had seen George coming towards them, one large hand on the shoulder of a boy their age. They had been off the swings and at his side in an instant-perhaps they had teleported, though it was hard to remember now-and Julian had been behind her, using her as a shield (he had been shy once, she reminded herself). The boy at George’s side had appraised them coldly, his blue eyes glinting from behind his unkempt shoulder-length hair while George had said something none of them had heard. The only words she remembered had come from Julian, two clear words appearing in her mind as though they were hers: He’s beautiful. She had been startled for a moment when a wave of Julian’s admiration had surged through her, but even as a child she had known better than to confuse her brother’s emotions with her own. It was the intensity of the feeling that had been the surprise, coupled with the formation of actual words, her brother’s words in her thoughts. And then she had thought of the words themselves, of the fierce emotion for this boy who hadn’t even spoken to them yet, who was glaring at them as though they had challenged him to a fight. She had wondered if Julian could see her own neutral reaction to the boy through the haze of his adoration. He’s beautiful.
Later she had wondered if Julian had had some sort of foresight (other than the obvious), for Richmond had become beautiful-and no, handsome did not cover it. The first place they had taken him had been 19th century England (Julian’s favourite); as he grew up Richmond had taken on many of the mannerisms of the dandies of that time. She knew Julian had called them lovely in his presence. Had Richmond modelled himself after them on Julian’s behalf?
He left her side now and in a few long strides caught her brother around the waist, holding him still long enough to kiss his freckled cheek. They were at the top of the S-curve now, their relationship settling down enough that they could comfortably visit the 20th century again. There had been a time-months, almost a year-when Sophie had been alone in the library almost constantly, when Julian’s thoughts had been closed to her, when she had found herself visiting the 18th century alone. She had tired of that more quickly than expected and had taken a risk, pushing herself as far back as she could comfortably go. She had met a young poet there, a pallid little thinker called Roland (he had no idea of the poem, which Sophie found amusing). He was open-minded and friendly, had listened to her thoughts and gladly abandoned everything to speak with her each time she appeared to him. He had thought her a witch and begged her to bring him success. Roland made Sophie happy until he asked her to marry him, pressing a love poem into her hand. She couldn’t ever bring herself to return.
It was the beginning of a phase in her life during which Sophie had sought friendship outside of her family, away from her brother and her only friend; a time that began with the penniless young poet and ended with a student at the Sorbonne whose name she had quickly forgotten. The game had become dull and repetitive-she appeared to him when he is alone, promised to fulfil whatever he asked of her, then moved to later times of his life, telling him he wasn’t ready yet, that the time was coming, that he need only work a little longer or study a little harder-each would inevitably find himself succeeding, but it was never what they wanted anymore. The moment he asked her to marry him, to kiss him, or, in a few dreadful cases, to sleep him, with Sophie was gone. And it always ended the same way. She wasn’t looking for what her brother had, not really, but for what her brother had been. There had been times when, sitting on a couch with her chin on her knees and listening to the low voice of one of her men explaining his philosophies or telling her about his dreams, she had felt Julian looking for her, but it had only been a casual realisation that their paths hadn’t crossed in ages. She had always bitterly closed her thoughts to him.
The whole phase had finally drawn to a close when Julian found her in the library one day and flung his arms around her, pinning her own arms to her sides. “It’s been forever!” he had cried; she felt Richmond’s hand tenderly brushing her hair back off her face and tucking it behind her ear. And then Julian-and thus Richmond-had followed her around the manor grounds until George called them to dinner with their parents. The three of them had ended the day in George’s little house, Sophie beating Richmond at chess while Julian shuffled through the old caretaker’s collection of ancient records and George himself stood guard, grimacing at her brother’s clumsiness. Over the sound of George’s sighs Richmond, long fingers resting lightly on the head of his knight, had murmured, “We really did miss you, you know.” A moment later Sophie found herself blinking tears away.
Richmond had never stopped being strange, a bizarre mixture of that angry, shy urchin and the soft-spoken dandy her brother had somehow created. He had become beautiful, of course, but vain as well: his morning ritual was largely spent hunched over the sink, his pointed nose inches away from its double in the mirror and his pretty fingers moving strands of long black hair until it was just so-falling lightly past his shoulders, parted razor-straight down the middle of his scalp. It was hardly a revolutionary style, but something he used, some product from the mid-twenty-first century made it perfectly smooth. She wondered if he was trying as hard as she was to separate himself from the bitter child he had been, the sulky boy with the furious expression in his eyes and hair like a tangled rag mop.
It had all been much easier when they were children, before Julian and Richmond had become inseparable, when she had had some manner of control. Richmond had eventually learned to relax around them, but he had remained a withdrawn little creature-timid was certainly the wrong word. He had thoughts and strong opinions that glittered in his blue eyes; when Richmond gave an order both the other children had felt compelled to obey it. You’re my girlfriend.
Where had the controlling side gone after he and Julian had come together? Come together… no, she didn’t like that word choice at all. “Aligned themselves” was not much better. That was none of her business.
Julian had been shy before George had brought Richmond to them. She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t had access to his mind-his emotions at least had always been a part of hers. Then she had heard two words, heard words from his thoughts, and if not for Richmond they would never have needed to use their voices again. Well-they certainly would not have shut out poor George. Dinner would have been fun, she imagined: brother and sister sharing private conversation in a way that the parents, rigid figures in high-backed chairs, could never monitor. For Richmond, though, they had continued to speak aloud; for Richmond Julian had begun to shut her out. That had come later of course-first had come the years she characterised by Richmond glowering at the floor and Julian timidly watching him with eyes full of admiration, years where Sophie found herself coaxing the new boy to speak to them, to trust them, years during which she led her two playmates until they gathered the courage to voice their own ideas, years during which they discovered Arquellain 3 and made friends in every era of every century they could reach, friends who understood their speech but answered in a different language. Richmond had tagged along quietly, always watching them, gauging everything with his calculating eyes. Julian had flung himself into obsession after obsession, each as short-lived as it was all-consuming, and Sophie had seen the great lady, a stranger from the past standing in the dust of Arquellain 3.
Greece had been Richmond’s idea. It was in the early days of the S-curve, the days when Sophie had had to adjust to seeing her brother’s fingers twining through Richmond’s, the days when all of them were trying to find a way to readjust their little family to accept this new development. I want to go to Greece, he had said, and none of them had needed to ask when. They had never been back so far, never really gone past those times of the Renaissance, for before that it was like swimming against a current. Richmond had said it, though, and even if Sophie hadn’t felt compelled to obey she would never have been able to turn Julian from Richmond’s will. The journey had been exhausting and terrible-they should never have tried to make such a leap directly from the manor-and when the ground of Athens was firmly beneath their feet Sophie had collapsed, dimly aware that her brother lay at her side. She had pressed her fists against her forehead, willing the pain to fade, and squinted at this ancient world, vision blurred by her eyelashes. The first thing she saw was Richmond knelt at her brother’s side, one hand running through the mess of brown hair and the other spread across his skinny chest. It was the first time she had noticed that gentleness that later became his defining trait, and once Julian was on his feet it was the first time she had seen a trickle of blood on his upper lip.
It was obvious now that Richmond had needed justification, but what it had done for the boys psychologically it had taken from the siblings physically. They had spent several strange days in Athens, understanding those around them but unable to speak, for even Latin had not yet been formed and English would not exist for centuries. What must Richmond have felt in those days? She and her brother had needed to recover before they tried to travel again, but they had been able to hear each other despite the silence, to know each others’ feelings, and neither was alone. When Richmond was in his head, he was completely isolated-Sophie could not imagine it. Of course, she could feel the way affection and admiration sailed through Julian’s entire body when his eyes were on Richmond, could see the edges of some rather graphic memories that he had blocked. It had all been secondary at the time-the siblings had been afraid they would never recover enough to get back to a familiar time, much less their own distant manor-and, unable to communicate with the Greeks, they found themselves sleeping on the ground in the forest, Julian’s mind filled with images of wolves, of fearsome legends from Rome and from Sparta, forcing Sophie to focus on soothing things like the smell of a yellow-paged book in the library and the sound of Orson Welles’s tinny voice through George’s ancient Victrola. But it didn’t help. She could remember the moment when all thoughts completely disappeared; in the instant before he closed his thoughts from her she saw that Richmond was kissing him, that Richmond had known he was upset without seeing the images in his mind and Richmond had known how to help him. Richmond was taking care of her brother while Sophie remained alone in her head.
When she saw the quick flashes of dreams in her periphery she knew Richmond had kissed Julian to sleep. She slowly turned her head and saw him in Richmond’s arms, head on Richmond’s chest, messy hair brushing against Richmond’s chin. Sophie crossed her arms across her stomach and went back to watching a weak star glimmer through the thick canopy of leaves above them. She was lying atop a huge rock, she could tell, and though it was mostly buried she could feel it prodding at her.
Sophie had wondered what had changed in Julian. She and her brother were connected in a way they had never found in any era, a part of each others’ consciousness, and now he didn’t need her. That was a relief. Wasn’t it? She could sit in the library for hours, completely lost in written history until George called her to a meal. There was no other interruption anymore, no brush of footsteps and thumps of Julian flopping down at her side, no murky brown eyes fixed pleadingly on her, silently begging her to pay him attention, to join him on another adventure. She could have read forever, sitting in silence until the hum of the manor’s machinery grew so loud that it rolled across her in waves, the near silence louder than an army of voices or Julian’s darkest nightmares. She knew her brother wanted her around, knew that he loved her as madly as he always had, but for the first time he loved someone else more. Someone else made him happier than she ever could (or should or would) and she was glad for him. This was better for all of them. He no longer needed her.
So when she found the letter, the letter that had changed everything, she knew Julian would be okay. Richmond would take care of him when she was gone, would console him and keep him safe. Of all of them George would be hurt the most, would be more alone than anyone, but George was old and wise and he had books as she had them, had Orson Welles and Glen Miller and his piano. George would be alone, but George would recover. Julian was not meant to be alone. Julian had Richmond. Quiet, serious, gently Richmond could support her brother through anything, could hold him like he had in that ancient forest and help him move on.
Their relationship had levelled off at last, had reached a point where they had stopped surprising her, where they had allowed her back in, but now Sophie withdrew from them again-even from George this time-and waited in the library. The letter had explained everything. It had been in her own writing. She followed her own instruction, met with the haughty, insecure girl who found Richmond so enchanting-Richmond, the man who had been that angry, angular boy-and then she waited. She had waited with her thoughts closed to Julian, wondering what kind of man this stranger would be. She and her brother had a respect for time that she doubted anyone could understand: the letter existed and could not be denied. But it was always going to be like this, wasn’t it? Things had arranged themselves and they didn’t need her anymore.
But she was too weak to cut herself off completely. She gave in, she let Julian find her, and when they arrived-they were young men now, her brother and Richmond: had they grown so much in so little time, or was she looking at them with fresh eyes?-she couldn’t stop herself from pulling him into a hug and smiling against his shoulder at the shock and glee in his mind. The man loves hugs, she had thought-who had said that? One of their friends in the past-was it the waitress? She had held him there for a long time, her arms wrapped so tightly around his waist that the tips of her fingers practically brushed her own stomach. It was a long time before she finally kissed his scratchy cheek (was it Richmond who encouraged the patchy facial hair?) and released him, hoping she would never forget that he smelled like the dispensable soap from The Twin Sunsets and his sweater was softer than it looked. She hoped she would remember that sweet happiness in his mind at being hugged so spontaneously. His ears were bright red; he wanted to admonish her for abandoning them but he didn’t have the words.
Richmond stood by almost uncomfortably; for a moment she saw him as Julian’s keeper, some sort of nursemaid or body guard watching his charge consort with someone who might be dangerous, but she pushed the notion aside and wrapped her hand in the ties of his cloak, tugging him toward her with as smile. In that instant she could see the gap between them, a crack that had opened in the forest of ancient Greece and stretched in all the years since until the two of them stood on opposite sides of a ravine. Was it all because of Julian? Was it that hard for her to let someone else be the most important person in his life, let someone else scold him for his immaturity and pull him back when he went charging across streets? Sophie sighed and dropped her forehead against Richmond’s shoulder. She felt his surprise even without knowing his mind, but after stiffening for a moment he tentatively put his arms around her. A moment later Julian was embracing them both: he pressed a kiss against Sophie’s hair and then Richmond’s cheek. He was so happy right now, utterly ecstatic at having the people he loved most in his arms, but Sophie felt panic rising in his chest as he worried that it was going end soon-had he seen that in her mind?-and the three of them might never again have a moment like this. His grip tightened and she felt Richmond move again, wondered if he could sense Julian’s fear as well as Sophie could feel it. How like her brother to panic so needlessly. He was terrified of the future-always had been-even forbidding them to journey forward in time. Sophie had agreed because the rule made sense.
And then Julian was asking to go somewhere, anywhere, any time that wasn’t here, and begging her to come along. It was the library making him uncomfortable, the stillness and the towering columns of books on each side, the things Sophie loved. Yes, she had definitely let something slip. How much had he seen in her thoughts?
Where they went barely mattered. They left the library in the way they had always done as children, each holding the others’ hands in a tiny ring, but this time she followed Julian’s lead, reaching for the picture in his mind. When they arrived she recognised Paris, tall limestone building on either side of a narrow street and the familiar rattle of carriage wheels on cobbled roads. It was never Julian’s choice to come to Paris: he had done this for her. She squeezed his hand before letting it go.
They do not stay long. The baron de Blomet was glad to see them again: his wife Virginie had finally died and he was taking ill himself, though all four of them knew it was not something that bloodletting would cure. As they left his estate Sophie sighs and drops her head against Julian’s shoulder, murmuring that she wishes François had someone to take care of him. Someone like Richmond, though she did not say that part aloud. Julian did not answer, simply putting one arm around her shoulders and linking his other arm through Richmond’s. He took her meaning. Sophie quickly diverts her thoughts from the library and the letter.
She kisses Julian’s cheek as she pulls free of his arm. “See you at the manor,” she says, and she leaves him there, thinking hard that she loves him, concentrating on how much he means to her as her surroundings vanish. He heard. He felt it.
And she is okay now. Julian is safe and he knows that she loves him, that he is everything to her. He doesn’t need her. She feels him worrying, but he is still in France with Richmond. He will be taken care of.
As she settles back down into her favourite armchair, pulling a book on Rococo fashion from her favourite shelf, Sophie hears the floorboards behind her creak. She closes her mind to her brother Julian for the last time.