Until tonight, Andrew had never fully appreciated the magnitude of his older brother’s prickishness. It was a quality he vowed never to underestimate again.

By the time Andrew swam near the shore—carrying Colin on his back to make better time—George had been joined by their parents, sister, and brother-in-law. The headlights of their three parked cars threw a harsh glare over the side of the boathouse.

“What’s going on?” Colin whispered as the two of them waded through the shallow water near the loch’s edge.

“I’ve no idea.” In fact, Andrew had some idea. He just couldn’t believe that such a brief, innocuous act of his could cause such furor.

“Whatever it is,” Andrew said to his family as he and Colin stepped onto shore, shivering and dripping, “it can wait until we’re warm and dry, or at least clothed.”

“Two minutes!” George shouted as Andrew passed him.

Andrew stopped, conjuring his best death stare despite being drenched and nearly naked. “I don’t take orders from you. Dunleven isn’t yours yet.”

They looked at their father, who sighed and said, “Five minutes.”

Andrew escorted Colin through the front door, then shut and locked it behind them.

Colin made a beeline for his phone, which, though now muted, was lighting up like Guy Fawkes Night fireworks.

“Do I even want to know?” Andrew asked as he stepped into the shower room to retrieve a pair of towels.

“The internet is wise to us. This one guy replied to you, ‘Don’t you screen your rent boys for cybernat tendencies?’”

Andrew wanted to kick himself. One of these days he’d learn to think first and tweet later. Obviously this was not that day. “I’m so sorry.” He handed Colin a towel. “This wasn’t how I intended to introduce you to the world.”

“No point in you apologizing, or me raging.” Colin tossed the phone back onto the bed. “We’ll just have to make the best of it.”

As they hurried to dress, Andrew marveled at his boyfriend’s composure. On a day-to-day basis, Colin was the excitable one, given to panic and drama, whilst Andrew usually kept a cool head. But in a real crisis, when rocks flew through windows and shitstorms erupted on Twitter, Colin was a pillar of strength.

Right now, Andrew needed that strength.

Outside, he introduced Colin to his sister, tersely, and to her husband, somewhat less tersely. As always, Jeremy was warm and conciliatory, and Andrew hoped his brother-in-law would prove an advocate in this late-night kangaroo court.

Preempting George’s rant, Andrew turned to his mother. “What have I done and how can I sort it?” This approach usually defused family tensions. If Andrew feigned penitence and focused on solutions—which he may or may not undertake—he appeared reasonable rather than defensive. Passive aggression was an art form, and he was its master.

But this time, his brother wasn’t buying it. “You know exactly what you’ve done, you spiteful little beast!” He lumbered toward Andrew, brandishing his own phone, his brawny frame silhouetted in the headlights’ glare.

“Easy, George.” Jeremy intercepted him. Out of all the family, he was the only one still wearing a suit at this late hour. “Why don’t we discuss this tomorrow over breakfast, once we’ve all had a chance to calm down?”

“He’s not staying for breakfast.” George pointed to Andrew’s car. “I want you gone.”

“I won’t leave the boathouse tonight. It’s still mine.” Andrew flinched inside at his own petulance. Be an adult. Be an adult.

“We can’t trust you with this place,” George said. “You’ve brought shame on the entire family, all because you’re angry we’re selling your precious little shack.”

Andrew gaped at his brother. He was used to George insulting his intelligence or his sexual “proclivities,” but to malign the boathouse somehow cut even deeper.

Finally their father stepped forward. “George, you’re not helping in the least.” He turned to Andrew, pulling his woolen jumper tighter across his chest, looking miserable in the chill night air. “Son, you must acknowledge the unfortunate timing of your, erm…” He waved his hand between Colin and Andrew. “Your declaration.”

“It wasn’t a declaration,” Andrew said. “I merely shared Colin’s observation about the BBC story. My profile bio clearly states that retweets are not—”

“Come off it,” George said. “By disseminating his attack, you’re implying you agree with him.”

Andrew gave what he hoped was a withering look. “Perhaps you should learn how Twitter works before you accuse me of being a nationalist.”

“You may not be a nationalist—yet—but you’re obviously fucking one.”

Everyone gasped but Andrew. He’d expected this. “Technically, George, a nationalist is fucking me.”

More gasps. Elizabeth put her face in her hands. “I just want back in my bed. Is that too much to ask?”

George advanced on Andrew. “Is this why you wouldn’t appear with the Better Together campaign like we asked? Because you didn’t want to offend your boyfriend?”

“As Colin can attest, I never hesitate to offend him. And I told you last month why I wouldn’t campaign.” Andrew turned to Jeremy. “Sorry, mate, but those politicians are behaving like complete idiots, Labour and Tory alike.”

“Naturally you know better than they do, Andrew.” George gestured to Colin. “After all, you’re deeply in touch with the common man.”

Something inside Andrew snapped. Perhaps it was his brother’s sneer, or the way his cheek was presented at precisely the perfect angle. But it seemed as if a bright red bullseye had appeared on George’s face.

Andrew’s fist landed square in the center of the imaginary target. Pain rippled up his arm, but it vanished in a wave of adrenaline at the sound of his brother’s roar.

“How dare you?” George lunged at Andrew, but Colin grabbed him from behind, trapping his arms against his sides.

“Gonnae no do that, mate.” Colin sounded strangely calm in the midst of the chaos. Elizabeth was screaming, Jeremy and Dad seemed unable to decide which brother to restrain first, and Mum…

Andrew looked at his mother, hoping for the support she’d always given so freely. But her eyes were cold as she stepped into the fray and raised her hands.

“Enough,” she said with a voice of steel. The shouts and struggles ceased immediately. Colin let go of George, who put a hand to his own face to dab at the spot of blood on his cheekbone.

Andrew looked down to see a red stain on the face of his own signet ring. “I’m sorry,” he told his mother, then pressed his lips together, his throat thickening. Another word and he would bawl like a child.

Colin came to stand beside him. “C’mon, let’s go home,” he said quietly.

“But I wanted—” Andrew blinked back a tear. I wanted to visit Gretchen tomorrow. I wanted you to meet her. I wanted one last beautiful night in my favorite place on earth.

“Andrew,” his father said, “I think it’s best you stay offline until after the referendum next week. Let this commotion die down a bit.”

The thought nearly made him choke. Remain silent during this historic time in Scotland’s history? “Jeremy, tell them.” Andrew turned a pleading gaze on his brother-in-law. “On our cruise you asked me to speak out more, remember?”

“I did.” Jeremy spoke to Dad. “This week is a golden opportunity for Andrew to make a name for himself in the Conservative Party.”

“He’s making a name for himself all right,” George said with a growl. “And that name is ‘Judas.’”

Andrew’s anger swelled again. “I’m suddenly an ex-Tory, because of one retweet?”

“It’s more than a retweet, and you know it.” Mum landed a stern gaze on Colin, then shifted it to Andrew. “I agree with your father. Stay offline. And when you go to London tomorrow, please remain there until the start of the semester.”

Andrew looked at Colin. Ten more days apart? Now, when they’d finally found harmony? “What if I don’t agree to these demands?” he asked his parents.

Dad drew himself up to his full height, looking every inch the Fourth Marquess of Kirkross. “Then I’m afraid there will be consequences.”

“What did he meant by consequences?”

Andrew gave Colin a dour look, his face lit by the Tesla’s silver dashboard lights. “‘Consequences’ is code for cutting my allowance.”

“Cut it completely?”

“Of course not.” Andrew accelerated hard, zipping through the A90’s light late-night traffic, making Colin’s stomach press against his ribs. “That would be akin to disownment, which would bring more disgrace to the family than any action I could ever take to provoke it. But my father could start giving me less money than I need.”

Before tonight, Colin would have gagged at Andrew’s economic “needs.” Now he just felt pity and outrage that the Sunderlands would use their financial support to bully Andrew into silence. Lord and Lady Kirkross had seemed so nice at first, but underneath their gentility was that upper-class unfeeling ruthlessness—not to mention cluelessness about how the world actually worked. The only one who’d acted decently was Andrew’s brother-in-law, Jeremy, and since he was a Tory operative, Colin didn’t trust him either.

“‘He’s making a name for himself all right,’” Andrew said, mocking George’s thunderous tone. “‘And that name is Judas.’ God, my brother must’ve been so proud of that line. Sounds like rejected soap-opera dialogue.”

Colin had been impressed—and frankly a wee bit turned on—by Andrew’s defending his honor against George’s insults. But he wondered how his boyfriend could be shocked at the reaction to his retweet, both online and from his family. As a self-proclaimed master of social media, Andrew must have known he’d cause an uproar. Maybe he just enjoyed pissing off his family. Or maybe he wanted to confuse his haters—including the person who’d chucked a rock through his window.

Or maybe he’d shared Colin’s tweet because deep down he agreed with it. Maybe it wasn’t a rash act at all, but a courageous one. Maybe he’d be open to more truths.

As they began to cross the enormous Forth Road Bridge, Colin cleared his throat. “Before all this, your mum seemed pure supportive of you and me. As a couple, I mean.”

Andrew grunted. “Guess I ruined that, didn’t I?”

“She said my story inspired you, the things I’ve overcome.”

“It does.” Andrew reached out and squeezed Colin’s hand. “You’re amazing.”

“But I’ve not overcome anything yet.”

“You will. You’re on the right track. You’ll finish your degree and find a job and be a huge success.”

“That’s the thing, see.” Colin ran his teeth over his upper lip, trying to work out how to explain reality to someone like Andrew. It felt like the day Emma had asked him point-blank whether Father Christmas was real. “Remember that family in the tower block with no electric?”

Andrew frowned. “Yes, of course.”

“The husband, Mr. Henderson, he phoned me the next night to ask a few questions. It turns out, he and his wife have both got bachelor’s degrees. She works at a nail salon and he works at one of those payday-loan places. Minimum wage, both of them.”

Andrew’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “How is that even possible? Why haven’t they got better jobs?”

“Because there aren’t better jobs, not enough of them.” Colin looked away from Andrew, over at the red steel skeleton of the Forth Rail Bridge. Beyond the hills on its other side glowed Edinburgh’s city lights. “That could be me one day, no matter how clever I am, no matter how hard I work.”

After a few moments of tense silence, Andrew said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

Colin kept his eyes on the horizon as the bridge’s suspension cables whizzed past him in the foreground. “People at the bottom, like me and the Hendersons, we’re not asking to live in luxury. We just want to stop being afraid.”

He shut up then, knowing he must seem pathetic. But if he couldn’t be pathetic with Andrew, there wasn’t much point in being in love with him.

Andrew took Colin’s hand again—softly this time, with no patronizing squeeze or words of false hope. He simply held onto it as he drove, the passing bridge lights flashing golden over his sad, pensive face.

Colin closed his eyes and savored Andrew’s silent presence. For now, it was all he really needed.

Andrew’s Starbucks order confirmed Colin’s suspicion that his boyfriend had barely slept last night.

“Venti French roast, no room for milk, please.”

“Hardcore, you.” Colin ordered his usual English Breakfast tea with milk and sugar. “A table outside just cleared. I’ll get it.” He hurried away, ignoring Andrew’s protests.

Settling in at a table beside Buchanan Street’s bustling pedestrian section, Colin noticed he did feel strangely exposed. Crowds had never bothered him before.

Though Colin and Andrew wouldn’t see each other for ten days—when the world would be different no matter the referendum’s result—they’d not made love upon returning to the flat late last night. Andrew had claimed he just wanted to sleep, but from what Colin could tell, he’d stayed awake most of the night, sitting up in bed with his laptop. When asked what he was working on, Andrew had mumbled something about “the future” and angled the screen away from Colin’s eyes.

Andrew arrived with their coffees and breakfast wraps. Colin tore off the wrapper and tucked in, too hungry to worry about how quiet his boyfriend remained. As he ate, he watched a busker set up her amp, mike, and guitar case outside the Apple Store across the street.

After several half-hearted bites, Andrew set down his own wrap. “I feel I should say something.”

Colin stopped chewing, the eggs and sausage turning to sawdust in his mouth. Was Andrew having second thoughts about them? Did Colin’s rough edges suddenly seem less attractive, seen through the eyes of Lord and Lady Kirkross?

No. He had to have faith, had to stop jumping to catastrophic conclusions every time Andrew turned serious.

Colin swallowed his food past the lump in his throat. “What is it?”

“I’ve put you in an awful position.” Andrew tore off a corner of his wrap, frowning at it instead of eating it. “Facing all that wrath from my family, not to mention Twitter.”

Colin shrugged. He’d stopped reading the replies after the first half-dozen rent boy comments.

“I was dreadfully naive,” Andrew continued. “I underestimated the forces against us. You didn’t sign up for this.” He sighed. “So I wanted to say I’m sorry, and that if you’d prefer to-to leave me before things get worse, I’ll understand. But I really…” Andrew’s fingers trembled on the lid of his coffee cup. “I really, truly hope you prefer to stay.”

“Okay, listen.” Colin took a long sip of tea to clear his voice. “I’ve been hurt a lot in my life and still survived. Nothing your family or the bellends on Twitter say could ever cut like my mum’s words, or those bullies at school.” He put his hand on the back of Andrew’s chair and leaned closer. “The haters cannae cut me down, cos now I know what I’m worth. And that’s partly because of you.”

Slumped over his food and coffee, Andrew gave him a smile, its brilliance only marginally diminished by his exhaustion. “Thank God. I thought for sure these last twelve hours would’ve sent you running.”

“Too late for that, mate. You wanted all of me. Now you’ve got me, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“Damn,” Andrew’s mouth said, even as his eyes said the opposite. Then he looked past Colin and his smile vanished. “Damn,” he said again, this time clearly meaning it.

Colin turned to see a photographer standing about ten yards away, not far from the busker, who was scowling at the interloper as she tuned her guitar.

The man lowered his giant camera with its long lens, grinning triumphantly. “First photo of you two since the big retweet,” the photographer shouted, giving them a thumbs-up. “I’ll make a fortune!”

Clenching his fist, Colin turned back to Andrew. “Shall I kill him for you?”

“No.”

“Then shall I put my tongue down your throat and give him a better pic? Maybe he’s got weans at home need fed.”

Andrew chuckled. “Tempting, but no. Best to ignore the paparazzi and accept they’re a part of our lives now. There’s no escape.” He took a long sip of coffee and stared across the street with a look of dull despair. “Unless we move to America.”

“Aye, right, we’ll just do that then. Problem solved.” Colin started eating again, his appetite fully restored.

“We could do it,” Andrew said. “People in the States care about money and ability, not class. There I could just be Andrew Sunderland, not Lord Andrew.”

Colin stared at him and tried to keep chewing. But you are Lord Andrew. “You serious?”

“Dead serious. My parents would probably even pay for us to live there. From across the Atlantic I couldn’t embarrass them as much. It might not be enough money to live in New York City, but there are other lovely—”

“Wait, wait. Andrew, I cannae leave Glasgow. I’ve got three more years of uni. So do you.”

“Yes, but—listen, I did some research last night. We can apply to university in the US, perhaps even for spring semester. With your football skills, you could get a soccer scholarship.”

“What if I hurt my knee again? I’d lose my scholarship and have to pay tuition. Katie telt me that’s how it works there.”

“If that happens, God forbid, then I’ll pay your tuition.”

Stunned, Colin sat back in his chair, thinking of their weekend in New York. Sunday morning they’d gone to the roof of Rockefeller Center, where they could see the entire city and beyond, out over the land of opportunity. In America, anything seemed possible if you were clever and hardworking.

Meanwhile here in Britain, a millennium of tradition had entrenched the powers that be. No matter how hard Colin and his mates fought for a revolution, some days it seemed nothing would ever change. After last night’s stooshie with the Sunderland family, this was definitely one of those days.

“Is that who I think it is?” Andrew asked, peering past Colin down Buchanan Street.

Colin turned to see a few dozen men and women in suits and dresses walking purposefully up the center of the stone pedestrian way. He recognized among them several Members of Parliament, all from the Labour Party.

“Aye, it’s the shadow cabinet,” he told Andrew. “I heard the Better Together campaign was carting them all up here on the train for some event at Royal Concert Hall.” He gestured toward the tall building at the end of the road. “They must be walking from Queen Street Station.”

Andrew sniffed. “No taxis, of course, because they’re Labour and they want to appear ‘of the people.’”

The guitarist began to sing, and Colin instantly recognized a song from his childhood—Chumbawamba’s “Amnesia,” written about Labour’s betrayal of the working classes. Too bad the cheeky lass’s joke would be lost on these oblivious politicians.

Andrew pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen. “Talking of the station, I need to head there in fifteen minutes. We can discuss my America idea when I return from London. Just think about it, okay?”

“I don’t need to think about it.” Colin set his hands on the edge of the table for support. “I’m incredibly grateful you’ve proposed this, and at first glance it seems the solution to everything.”

Andrew frowned. “But?”

“I cannae move halfway round the world just to be dependent on you. If we break up, would you still pay my tuition?”

“I wouldn’t leave you to starve, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid. Look, life here is pure difficult, I know better than anyone. But I’ve got a plan—get my degree, get a job, start a business—and I’ve got hope.” Most days, anyway. “If we go to America and things don’t work out, I could lose everything. That’s not fear talking, it’s just common fuckin’ sense.”

Andrew gave a frustrated huff. “So then what? All we need to be happy is a new world here in Britain?”

“Or, barring that, we do the best we can with the one we’ve got.”

Pouting, Andrew shifted the cardboard sleeve around his coffee cup. “I was right. You are one of the sanest men I know.”

“Considering you pal about with a bunch of inbred toffs, that’s not surprising.” He eyed the last bite of his wrap, still hungry. “I always forget to order two of these things. They look so much bigger in the photies on the menu.”

“What in God’s name…” Andrew craned his neck, peering down Buchanan Street again.

The endless mass of Labour MPs was still passing by, but they were no longer alone. In their midst rolled a rickshaw, driven by a man in a pink T-shirt and tie-dyed shorts. A familiar symphony was blasting from the vehicle. “Is that the Imperial March from The Empire Strikes Back?” Colin asked.

“It bloody is,” Andrew said with awe.

“People of Glasgow!” the ginger-bearded rickshaw rider announced with a megaphone. “These are your imperial masters! The Labour Party have traveled all the way from London to tell you to bow down!”

Colin laughed. The Better Together campaign must have spent a fortune in train tickets to bring all these MPs up north. Had they thought Scotland would be convinced to vote No by this bunch of losers? The people who’d stood arm-in-arm with Tories as they shafted the poor and made food banks a fact of life? Had these backstabbers thought roses would be tossed at their feet? In fucking Glasgow?

In any case, they were getting the welcome they deserved.

Oh, my beautiful city, I am so in love with you just now.

Andrew jumped to his feet. “Let’s follow.” He grabbed his coffee cup with one hand and thumbed in the password to his phone screen with his other. “This needs Instagramming.”

“What about ‘consequences’?”

“Right.” Andrew gave a brief frown as he tucked his phone away. “Let’s just enjoy it live, then. This is history.”

They hurried down the street to catch up to the rickshaw, now surrounded by a parade of onlookers, many of them recording the event with their phones.

“It’s like the anti-Palm Sunday,” Andrew said, his eyes alight with glee.

The rickshaw rider was now bantering with one of the Members of Parliament, a lady who’d just urged him to take his magnificent guerrilla theater elsewhere. “Have you not got a wee sense of humor?” he asked her.

“Not really,” she said. “Not with you.”

“Aw, that’s a shame.” The rider raised his megaphone again. “People of Glasgow, bow down to your imperial masters! They’ve used your tax dollars to come all the way from London. So appreciate them!” He pointed to Colin. “Get on your knees! Get on your knees and bow down to the Labour Party.”

The swelling crowd progressed up Buchanan Street, singing along with the rickshaw guy’s unofficial lyrics to the Imperial March (“Dah-dah-daaaah-dah-dah-daaaah-dah-dah-daaaah”). As Colin marched and sang, each step felt lighter than the last. Perhaps Scotland was done being pushed around. Perhaps things could change, and change utterly.

The impromptu parade finally ended at Royal Concert Hall, the steps of which were flanked with people holding Vote No signs. The rickshaw driver stopped at the bottom of the stairs, but the music continued to play as the politicians filed into the building.

Andrew tossed his empty coffee cup in the nearest bin and turned to Colin.

“I’ve traveled all around this planet. I’ve swum the Great Barrier Reef, hiked the Grand Canyon, watched the sun rise over Machu Picchu. Yet that”—he pointed to the rickshaw—“may be the single greatest thing I have seen in my entire life.” He took Colin’s hand. “Perhaps there is a new world on the way.”

Colin grinned. “Does this mean you’ll vote Yes?”

Andrew laughed and wagged his finger. “I put my ballot in the post this morning. It’s too late to convince me.”

“Och, then away to London with your useless self,” Colin said.

Then, because he couldn’t help it, he kissed Andrew in the middle of the Buchanan Street shopping district. In the middle of a revolution.

As his train pulled out of Glasgow Central, Andrew felt his gut tugging him back. Gazing at the fan-shaped, glass-and-steel patterns of the station’s grand concourse windows, he told himself he was bound for a vastly more important city. But right now, the universe seemed to revolve around Scotland.

London Fashion Show notwithstanding.

Thinking of that event reminded Andrew he had studying to do. He needed to catch up on not only fashion, but the latest gossip outside of “North Britain,” as his London mates referred to Scotland, a joke that got less funny every time they said it.

With a reluctant sigh, he wrested the stack of unread Tatlers from his rucksack, then dropped them on the table with a thud.

“I wondered why your bag was so heavy,” said Reggie, sitting diagonally across from Andrew, tapping away on his laptop.

“Sorry about that. You didn’t need to bring my luggage from the flat. You’re my bodyguard, not my valet.”

Reggie shrugged his broad shoulders. “You’d a breakfast date, and I didn’t like the idea of you leaving your bags at the station. Anyone could put anything into them.”

Andrew didn’t bother arguing that the Virgin Trains staff were paid to ensure baggage security. Reggie’s hyper-vigilance had saved his neck more than once. Andrew would be eternally grateful to him—and to Jeremy for referring Reggie after the sacking of the homophobic Wallace.

And yet…Andrew had never told Reggie about the Fascist Faggot rock through his window. Some deep instinct urged him to keep that secret, to protect Colin from suspicion.

If Colin had agreed to move to America, Andrew would be applying to universities there at this very moment. But he rather admired Colin for saying no. He admired him even more for not giving up on them. All this time, Andrew had been the doggedly determined one, but today, at Andrew’s moment of wavering, Colin had kept them together. Apparently once he was in, he was all in.

Andrew plugged his earphones into his phone and watched a video he’d made this morning at the break of dawn. Then, he used the train’s Wifi to upload the video to his YouTube account and set it to private. He had no idea when, or if, he would share it with his boyfriend and perhaps the world, but the words had needed saying. Thinking of those words made his stomach flutter and his skin sing, like he was standing on the edge of a ten-meter-high diving board.

Setting aside his phone, he picked up the newest issue of Tatler, telling himself he should enjoy leisure reading now before university began again. This issue had a decent fashion spread, but his eyes glazed over at How to gate-crash the smartest parties and Questions headmasters don’t want you to ask.

Andrew withdrew his fork from the remnants of smoked salmon and scrambled eggs. “If I see one more article about the Bullingdon Club, I will jab this through my eye socket into my frontal cortex. It’s your job to stop me.”

“Or you could just ignore it,” Reggie said.

“I’ve barely glanced at Tatler in months.” He frowned at the headline First-Class Departure: The poshest old-people’s homes. “Now I remember why.”

“Not even a peek at the Bystander pages? To see if you’ve finally made it in?”

“What do you mean, ‘finally’? I was in the April issue, remember?” When Reggie shook his head, Andrew pulled out the duplicate copy he’d bought at the newsstand (the original occupying a cherished space in his bedroom cupboard). “I was at the NME Awards afterparty at the Glade Bar in February, a week after I came out.” He passed it across the table to Reggie. “Page 216,” he said, then regretted how vain and pathetic he looked, still knowing the page number after all these months.

Andrew remembered how he’d gazed at that Bystander picture every day, his heart swelling at this proof he was still socially important despite his coming out—or perhaps because of it. Odd how he’d not even thought of the photo since he’d started dating Colin.

Reggie thumbed through the pages, wearing that I’m-so-good-at-humoring-him look. Then he suddenly grabbed the magazine and pulled it close to his face. “Sir, is this a joke? Did one of your mates do this?”

“Do what?”

With a foreboding look, Reggie turned the Tatler and slapped it onto the table between them.

In the picture, Andrew was posing between Peaches Geldof and Blondie’s legendary Debbie Harry, who’d just won the Godlike Genius award. Debbie’s scarlet pantsuit matched the handkerchief protruding from the pocket of Andrew’s black silk designer shirt.

It also matched the angry crosses now obliterating Andrew’s eyes, the slash across his neck, and the two words scrawled in the margins:

FASCIST FAGGOT