This wasn’t the George Square that Andrew had expected, based on videos and pics he’d seen on the news and on Twitter these last few weeks. It wasn’t “Freedom Square,” as the Yessers had hoped to officially rename it after independence had won.

There were few Saltires waving, and no children playing. There were no guitars or bongo drums. In fact, the only musical instrument seemed to be some sort of bike horn on steroids.

There were still songs, to be sure. But now, “Flower of Scotland” was drowned out by “Rule Britannia” and “God Save the Queen,” two hymns that had once swelled Andrew’s heart with British pride.

His innards had quite a different reaction to these off-key, shouted renditions, however, because now, the center of George Square was filled with Union Jacks, Orange Order banners, and even a sign reading Scotland is British. No Surrender.

The ugliest elements of Glasgow—literally and figuratively—had come out of hiding.

“Why are they so angry?” Katie asked as the five of them stood at the edge of the square, debating whether to enter. “They won.”

“They won Scotland,” Liam said, “but they lost Glasgow.” He folded his bulging arms over his chest. “These Unionist pricks think they own this city. They mean to take it back.”

“So they’re the same assholes who root for Rangers?” she asked. “Is this about football?”

“It’s not about football,” Colin said, “and most Rangers fans are nice. Like John.”

Andrew watched as a new clump of Unionists entered the square to his left, waving their arms and singing, “You can stick your independence up your arse!”

“We should go,” Robert said. “This could get ugly.”

“But there are plenty of Yes people here.” Andrew pointed to the Saltire-draped folk on a nearby grassy area. “Not to mention police.”

“The toff’s right,” Liam said. “Glasgow polis have got loads of experience with unruly crowds. Besides, I’m not letting this scum take our square.”

Colin sighed. “It’s not ours, mate. They’ve as much right to be here as we do.”

Liam flicked a glare between him and Andrew, then spoke to Colin. “First he’s wearing your Yes shirt, now you’re sympathizing with No voters. I cannae take this Bizarro universe.”

“Right, listen up!” Andrew let his voice turn imperious. He was sick of all this dithering.

The others looked at him. Miraculously, even Liam shut his mouth.

“We’ll stay for ten minutes,” Andrew continued, “then review the situation. We keep each other and the police officers in sight at all times. Agreed?”

They all nodded mutely.

“Good,” he said. “Now let’s go comfort our people.” Andrew stalked off in the direction of the Saltires, passing a sign written in neon blue chalk on the gray tarmac: Glasgow Said Yes.

Which of course he immediately Instagrammed.

Two nights ago, and for weeks before, George Square had been a place of hope for Colin. Last night, its monuments had stood in silent witness to his despair.

Tonight, it was a war zone in the making.

He and his mates had joined a large group of Yes voters on the edge of the square, on the same grassy area where Colin had wallowed last night. For the past hour, they’d all wiped one another’s tears, traded sympathetic hugs, and told stories of where they were when they heard about Clackmannanshire.

With each passing minute, however, the Yessers became a smaller island in the sea of Unionists. Colin wanted to leave before things turned mental, but his boyfriend was enjoying his first taste of revolutionary solidarity.

Andrew scowled at a parade of thugs draped in Union Jacks heading for the center of the square. “I never thought the sight of that flag could give me chills in a bad way.”

Colin glanced over his shoulder to ensure the police were still standing nearby. Over on Cochrane Street, a troop of officers on horseback were approaching the square, which was getting so loud, Colin could barely hear his friends.

Katie burst into laughter. “Oh my God, that Unionist dude has a cutout of the Queen over his face.” She leaned over to Robert and pointed. “See? I don’t think there are even any eye holes. I gotta get a picture.”

Colin suddenly remembered his phone. He needed to document this, for himself and for the world. “Stay here,” he told Andrew, then moved closer to the center of the square, climbing onto a bench to get a better view.

In front of him, Yes and No voters were screaming at one another, separated by a row of police officers. On the No side, a row of men made the Red Hand of Ulster gesture—which bore an eerie resemblance to a Nazi salute—as they sang “Rule Britannia.” On the other side, a crowd of drunken, sleep-deprived Yessers shouted “Who are you?” at their opponents, probably due to a rumor that some Unionists had been bussed up from England by a group of far-right skinhead types.

Whoever these blokes were, their numbers were still growing.

Colin took several photos of the screaming match, cursing the wobbly bench beneath him. He posted the best one to Instagram and Twitter, adding a simple caption:

This is Glasgow. This is not Glasgow.

A voice behind him said, “Aren’t you Lord Andrew?”

Colin turned to see his boyfriend beaming at a young pixie-cut blonde like she was a loyal subject. “Technically, yes. For the moment.”

“I saw your tweets,” she said, her lip curling. “Suddenly now you want to be one of us? Too little too late.”

“You’re right.” Andrew spread his hands. “I should’ve had the guts to say it sooner.”

“You’re a fucking poseur, you are! You’ve no right to wear this.” She tugged on Andrew’s blue Yes Scotland T-shirt, which matched her own.

Colin leapt over the back of the bench to join Andrew, but the lass’s mates had walled him off, shouting things like “Fucking toff!” and “Posh pansy!”

He could hear Katie’s strident voice telling them to “Back the fuck off!” but the crowd of Yessers grew louder, turning on her now for being a “Yank” and a “dyke.”

These dickheads are not my people, he thought as he shoved his way through. Then again, maybe today, everyone’s a dickhead. Including me.

Then Liam’s and Robert’s voices thundered forth, spouting East End Glaswegian threats and insults faster than even Colin could decipher. The mass of flesh began to push back against him, retreating, and finally he broke through.

Andrew was safe, his T-shirt askew but not torn. Colin hugged him quickly. “You all right?”

“Yes, thanks to your mates. Where were you?”

Colin held up his phone. “Being a social-media-obsessed eejit. Sorry.”

“Oi, it is Lord Andrew!”

They turned to see four well-dressed Unionists stalking over. The one at the front carried a handmade poster reading British Not Scottish. He stopped several feet from Andrew and pointed at him. “You’re a traitor to your country!”

Andrew lifted his chin, falling back into his default haughty mode. “I did what I thought right. So did you. Time to move on.”

“Move on? You lot almost destroyed the Union!” the guy shouted in what sounded like a English Midland accent. “No forgiveness, no mercy.”

“At least these Nats were honest,” one of the other Unionists said to Andrew, “but you pretended to be on our side. All along, you were secretly the enemy.”

“I wasn’t secretly anything. Like many others, I simply changed my mind.” Andrew met the man’s stare. “Perhaps one day, so will you.”

This seemed to enrage the Unionists more than anything. They stepped forward as one.

Colin rushed in front of Andrew. “Gonnae no touch him!”

“Aww, look, it’s the rent boy in shining armor,” said the poster-wielding guy.

“I’m getting the cops,” Katie said.

“Why? We’re just having a wee chat.” The lead wanker came eye to eye with Colin and lowered his voice. “Isn’t that right…faggot?”

Colin laughed. “Och, mate, you think I’ve not been called that a thousand times in my life?” He rapped the side of his own skull. “It doesnae get through anymore.”

The guy’s face twisted in confusion, so Colin brought out his proof. “Look. Battle scars.” He displayed the tattoos on his arm, first the unicorn. “Compound fracture, bullies, age thirteen.” Then the thistle. “Razor, myself, age fourteen through sixteen. And occasionally after. So if you think one wee word like ‘faggot’ will cow me, you’re off your head, man.” He spread his arms wide. “Gies a hug the now, eh?”

“No.” The guy stepped back. “You’re the one off your head. You’re a nutter.”

“Aye, I’m the nutter.” Colin raised his arms high, tattoos facing forward, and advanced on the Unionists. “I’m the bam! I’m the bam!”

They backed away, clearly freaked out by Colin’s complete lack of self-preservation. Real thugs wouldn’t have been fazed, but he’d bet on these idiots being nothing more than casual bullies.

“Leave them alone, Union scum!” The lass in the blue Yes shirt streaked past him. Andrew’s original attacker was now…defending them?

Her handful of minions streamed behind her, pushing Andrew and Colin forward. Colin reached for Andrew’s hand, but it slipped from his grasp as the crowd pulled them apart. The force of shoves rose with the volume of shouts, and the world began to spin.

“Stop!” Colin shouted, trying to get his bearings. “Let us go, we don’t want this!”

The big lad in front of him surged back suddenly, pushed from the front. He fell against Colin’s left leg, hitting his knee, at the same angle Katie had tackled him three months ago.

Colin went down, pain wrenching his leg. Had there been a pop? He couldn’t hear it over the shouts of “Bloody Nats!” and “Fuck your Union!”, but it felt like there’d been a pop. His ligament, shot again, after all these weeks of rehab.

He had a fucking match tomorrow. He was supposed to start.

Yes or No, John had said, there’ll always be the football. But this clash of cretins had stolen that from Colin too.

As he tried to crawl away, someone stepped on his fingers. Hurling words of rage and pain, he pushed through the sea of legs. He wanted to smash each knee around him, watch them buckle and snap. But he needed to find Andrew.

Finally Colin emerged into the light to see a mass of yellow-vested police officers separating the enemy crowds. To his surprise, he was nearly on the edge of the square now. Some force from the center was pushing everyone outward.

“Oh my God, Colin!” Katie ran to his side. “Are you okay?”

“My knee. My fucking knee.” He took the arm she offered and stood on his right foot. “Where’s Andrew?”

“I thought he was with you. Maybe he’s with Liam and Robert. They’re trying to break things up.”

Tentatively, Colin put weight on his left foot. It was painful but not agonizing. Not like the last time. But there was no way he’d start tomorrow. He’d be lucky to be a substitute even next week. Right now he needed ice and rest, pronto.

Liam and Robert emerged from the melee, which was migrating toward the street. “Police want Yessers to leave the square,” Liam said.

“Why only us?” Katie asked.

“They want to separate the two sides,” Robert said. “Keep the peace.”

“Where the fuck is Andrew?” Colin looked around, straining to pick out his boyfriend among the crowds in the fading evening light.

Then he spotted him, crossing over to Frederick Street, accompanied by a familiar big bald man.

“That’s Reggie, his security guy.” Colin shouted Andrew’s name, but he didn’t turn. “Why would he leave without telling us?”

“He must be safe, though, if he’s with his bodyguard,” Katie said.

The tightness of Andrew’s posture set off Colin’s internal alarm. “I don’t like this.” He took off, reaching a full sprint within a few paces.

“Your knee!” Katie shouted. “Be careful!”

When have I ever been careful? Dodging pedestrians, Colin darted down the pavement. “Andrew!” he called again at the top of his voice.

Still his boyfriend didn’t turn. He had to have heard him this time. Was he walking out on Colin? Was he going back to his old life? Would he rather live in a gilded cage than face a murky future where he had to scrabble for survival?

Not a chance.

Colin took a sharp right, dashing across the middle of the street to avoid the crowded junction, slaloming between crawling, honking cars. At each pivot, his knee spiked with pain, but his gut told him, Gonnae no stop, gonnae no ask for help. There’s no fucking time.

Rounding the corner of Frederick Street, Colin sped up. His knee gave a fiery warning throb that grew with each step.

He spied Andrew again a hundred feet away, standing on the curb across the street. He was arguing with Reggie, who was opening the rear door of a black car.

You won’t take him. Darting through the stopped traffic, Colin urged his legs faster than they’d ever run on the pitch. This goal mattered more than any. If he missed it, nothing else would ever matter again.

Colin reached the pavement and pivoted, pushing off on his bad leg. He gave a loud grunt of pain.

Ten feet away, Andrew saw him. His face contorted in terror. “Colin, no!”

Reggie turned, a flash of silver in his hand. Colin was going too fast to stop, too fast to slow, too fast to turn.

Not that he would have if he could.

Colin hurled himself against the bodyguard, knocking him away from Andrew. Fire exploded in his belly, and still he clung, staring up into Reggie’s horrified face. With a great shove, he knocked the big man against the side of the black car. He raised his fists to fend off another punch to the stomach, but Reggie held up his hands.

“Mate…I’m so sorry.” The bodyguard dropped what was in his hand. A knife clattered to the pavement between them.

Colin looked down. It was a peculiar sort of knife, with a blade colored red instead of—oh.

He’d not been punched after all.

From what seemed a great distance, Andrew called his name. From an even greater distance, a woman screamed. Then another, then another, until Colin wasn’t sure if they were new screams or just echoes of the first.

Colin dropped to his knees—which, he realized, no longer hurt. His gut, however, had become a volcano.

“Colin…” Andrew was holding him now, laying him back on the cold pavement. “Colin, hold on. The police are here and an ambulance is coming straightaway. They’ll save you, I promise.”

Colin closed his eyes for a long moment, and when he opened them again Andrew was still there, still murmuring rubbish about how it was all going to be okay. For some reason his chest was now bare. His head blocked the glow of a streetlamp, giving him a halo. Colin had never believed in angels, but now he had to wonder.

“Andrew,” he whispered.

“Don’t talk, love. Save your strength.”

I used it all to save you, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. “I need to—need to say…”

“No.” Andrew took Colin’s blood-soaked hand and kissed it. “You don’t need to say a thing.”

So Colin shut up and kept his eyes locked with Andrew’s. Around them, the screams multiplied. A lass nearby was sobbing her lungs out, shrieking, “They’re stabbing Yessers! They’re stabbing Yessers!” He heard Katie crying, and Liam and Robert raging, all three of them trying to get closer. He heard the deep, commanding voices of police officers ordering everyone to stand back.

Everyone but Andrew, who held Colin’s hand and Colin’s gaze, anchoring him to this world.

Then the sky suddenly faded—and oddly, so did the streetlamp. As Colin closed his eyes for the last time, he thought, Funny how quickly night falls in this city.