Conversation Among the Ruins

I stop the engine, unplug my seatbelt, and just sit here, in my car, in this otherwise empty carpark, watching fat drops of rain hit my windscreen in a slow steady wash. Everything out there looks like I've overdone the 'blur' filter in Photoshop.

So what am I doing here? What am I really doing here? Come on, girl. Let's get it admitted.

On the slippery slick surface of my mind, I'm here to look after a hungover friend. One of the joys of being a self-employed web-designer is I can take time off when I need to, or simply on a whim like today. It's not as if I was getting any work done anyway.

But Joseph's 'illness' isn't the real reason, and he'll know that as well as I do. So I might as well 'fess up I'm here to make him feel so guilty for excluding me from such a huge damn development in his life that he'll now tell me everything. I intend to wring him like an old dishcloth of every last drop of... well, gossip, I suppose. But it'd be kinder to call it, I don't know, social intelligence or something.

It's not like I'll repeat anything serious; he knows that. I don't blab about important things unless the subjects want the word spread. And I don't want to know in order to increase my own debatable cachet as queen bee of the local gay scene, what little there is of it. I want to know -- I have to know -- because Joseph's bloody well meant to be my best friend, and things like he's screwing his straight mate shouldn't come as a surprise to me when I walk into my kitchen and find them at it together.

And anyway, what the fuck's the point of living life vicariously if the person actually doing the living doesn't let me in on the act?

I sigh heavily, rubbing my eyes under my glasses and discovering some residue of yesterday's mascara gathered in their corners. I suppose I should've put some more effort into my appearance today, but I'm only seeing Joseph, and if I can't be my plain and unadorned self with him, then there's no hope for me. It's a simple matter of trust really.

You know, that thing Joseph has failed to show in me.

I just would never have believed Thom was gay. The man pretty much revels in boobs and fleshy female buttocks. It's true he never thinks enough of any girl to stick with them beyond a few weeks at the most, but you can't fake that level of enthusiasm for soft female bodies.

He was a little sickening actually, in that way. One of those blokes who can't look above your neckline if you're showing even the slightest cleavage. I took to wearing polo necks 'til he was gone from my life. Still, I met Joseph through Thom so I can't regret those few uneasy weeks.

Perhaps Thom's such a sex addict now that he no longer gives a toss where he pokes his willie, even if it's into the arse of skinny gay goth-boys. Or mouth, anyway -- guess I shouldn't presume any more than I saw with my own eyes. Because Thom is a damn addict; it's obvious to anyone with eyes and half a brain. It's all he thinks about, that and Jujitsu. He's like a big old Icelandic geyser that just has to spout every few hours or else the pressure inside gets dangerous.

Maybe he's bisexual, but if so, why's it taken him so damn long to start shagging Joseph, who's been pretty much offering himself to Thom on a silver platter since they were at school together? Yeah, rosy apple in his mouth and all.

For years now, I've been letting Joseph dampen my shoulder about Thom. His supposedly hopeless pash has gone on and on, unstinting, crippling his ability to have other relationships, messing up his life good and proper. It's not just a big deal that they've finally got together; it's the biggest deal. And one of the loudest questions of the many that have been echoing pointlessly around the caverns of my mind since last night is -- does Thom know?

Does Thom know that if he chucks Joseph aside now he will destroy my boy? Utterly and without hope of repair?

I sigh, watching another car drive past mine and park a few spaces off, reduced to a dark blur by the rain on the glass. My fingers tap the steering wheel.

Am I over-dramatising? Would hardly be the first time, and anyway, it's easy to expect the worst when it's Joseph I'm talking about. Other than writing, the one thing he excels at is drama and excess, despite claiming to hate it so bloody much. Or maybe that's why he does hate it -- 'cause it's so ever present in his life. I've never forgotten the night I had to talk him down over the phone from throwing himself on the tracks. Yeah, literally. And I'll bet you anything you like Thom doesn't know about that one.

There's not a single doubt in my mind he would've done it, either, had I not talked my poor throat raw trying to get him out of the circles of crappy logic he'd trapped himself within with typical obsessive efficiency. Scared the life out of me, he did. I mean it; I reckon I lost years off my lifespan that night. I was trembling for hours and really didn't relax at all 'til the next day when I spoke to him again and knew for sure he hadn't done it.

About a fortnight later, I totally lost it at him, screaming and thumping him over something really trivial. I can't even remember what supposedly upset me now, but we ended up crying like little kids in each other's arms, and I got him to promise to never ever do anything like that suicide call to me again.

We slept together that night as I didn't dare leave him. Not the first or the last time I've shared my bed with him. It's got to be a habit really. Every time one of us is upset to the point of just not coping we end up together, being each other's teddy bear for the night. All completely sexless of course. Well, more or less. Some naughty stories may be told, some horniness experienced, but it's all innocent stuff really. It's so bloody nice to be able to cuddle a man without having to worry how he'll read it.

Now, of course, I fret that Joseph will get suicidal and won't call me, and the first I'll know will be a policeman knocking at my door. Or Thom, which is almost more likely... actually no, it's not; he wouldn't bother to call round. He'd just let me know that the most important person in my life was gone via a quickie phone call. Suppose I should feel grateful that he's apparently never mastered the art of texting.

But I've still not told Joseph he can forget that promise not to do it to me again. I'd rather not know. Better not to know, than know and fail. I feel guilty about that, but not so guilty I'll relent; just can't go through that again. I never signed on the dotted line to be a lifesaver.

There's a noise outside; dark amorphous shapes are moving outside the door to the building foyer. Kids, I work out eventually, back from school and kicking a ball around. Oh, to hell with it. What am I sitting out here for, getting cold? Let's do this thing.

Outside, it's even colder, and the rain soaks my hair almost instantly. I make a dash for the door, passing the two boys kicking a football back and forth. How bad must their homes be if it's better to stand out here in freezing rain? Jesus.

Inside, I nearly trip over an old, broken umbrella someone has left at the bottom of the stairs. Great. I pause to wipe my glasses free of rain so I can hopefully better avoid the next obstacle left in my way. Sometimes it still hurts that Joseph chose to live in this dump rather than move in with me in the better part of town.

I put my glasses back on. Ok, let's go face that music.

Face it almost literally it seems, as I can hear the heavy beat of whatever it is Joseph's using to try to smash his hangover into component atoms before I even get near his door up one flight of stairs in this grimy shithole. His neighbours must love him to little pieces. Preferably with an axe.

I know it's his music; no one else listens to this sort of doom-throb, goth-meets-rave stuff around here.

I know, also, that he must be in a bad way, hearing this beat so loud and dragging that it seems to be setting the girders of the building vibrating. Joseph uses music like someone else would use drugs: to escape the world, to avoid the reality of himself, to simply stop thinking. I've seen, or rather, heard it before, many times, but I'm not sure I've ever heard it this bloody loud.

There's no way he's going to hear my knock over the pile-driving EBM; I might as well use my key. There's the possibility I could walk in on something again, I suppose, but Thom was supposedly sober last night, so there's no excuse for him not being at work this afternoon. I only know Joseph's not managed to drag himself in 'cause I tried to call him there and got the bitch from the next cubicle along instead.

The noise, when I open the door, is wall-like: solid, winding, thought-stealing. I'm pretty sure I can feel my eardrums buckling under the strain of the sub-woofered rhythm like a car in a head-on. Joseph's only half-dressed and sitting on the floor, leaning against the sofa. His long legs are bent and pulled close to his shirtless chest, his arms wrapped around them. His head is resting on his knees and turned away from me; he doesn't know I'm here.

Poor baby.

First things first, I shut the door and walk quickly behind the sofa to Joseph's stereo with its bloody ridiculous Tannoy speakers. Ridiculous for a small flat, that is. They'd be fine in a club, which is where they once were before it closed down, and Joseph and Thom pinched them from a skip outside.

Rather than fiddle with volume levels, I just hit the off-button. The sudden silence leaves me slightly unsteady, like coming out of a swimming pool and having to get used to being heavier again. The building seems to sigh in relief. I take my jacket off, throwing it over the back of the sofa, as it's damn hot in here.

"Fuck," comes muttered from the other side of the sofa, followed by shuffling noises. Joseph's head, pale shoulders and upper torso rise above the barrier in slow succession, and he stares at me as if he's never seen me before in his life.

Rolling my eyes, I walk round to him, only just avoiding an open pizza box complete with what is no doubt week-old pizza slices. Standing in front of him as he wobbles, I put my hands to his face, cupping it and examining what I see. He makes a half-arsed effort to pull away, but I follow.

"What?" he says defensively.

"Well, you're not bleeding from the ears, which convinces me only that you've already damaged them too much for blast damage to register anymore. Your eyes are bloodshot, and you look like shit, sweetie."

"Fuck off." He grabs my wrists and pulls my hands away. "What're you doing here?"

"Charming. I'm here to look after you as I heard you were... ill." I grin at him. Well, show a lot of my teeth anyway. "Oh, and by the way, I'm so pleased you chose to tell your work that you had food-poisoning from a meal you had out last night. That was lovely of you, darling."

"That was Thom," he says sulkily, collapsing onto his sofa in a mess of lanky limbs and puffed up dust. "He rang my boss while I was still out cold. Bastard didn't wake me 'til he was leaving and then didn't tell me he'd called work 'til he was out of the door and I was running around headless-chicken style trying to get ready."

That sounds like Thom's sense of humour all right. "Have you eaten today?"

"No, and I don't want to. Thom made me drink a huge glass of something bloody disgusting, and that was bad enough." He leans forward and rubs his hands over his face, his long, unkempt hair falling over them. "Christ, I feel awful."

"I'm not surprised. Not sure I've ever seen you that pissed before. I'm going to make tea, at least, and find you some painkillers." And maybe play with the thermostat too if I can remember where the hell it is.

"They're in the bedroom," he says, meaning the painkillers I suppose. Then he groans. "I'd better get them."

"That bad in there, is it?" I can't help but laugh. "How long has you and Thom been going on then?"

He gives me an uneasy look as he unfolds himself from the couch. "Little while."

"How long?" I put my hands on my hips and try to look stern. "Exactly."

"Hmm, a few months," he mutters, disappearing into his bedroom.

"Months?" I call out after him, the hurt feeling starting up again. I'd promised myself I wouldn't let it do that, let him do that. But months? All that time and he never told me.

His head sticks back out of his bedroom door, and he makes a nasty grimace my way. "On a scale of one to ten, how much making up to you need I schedule for?"

"Well, to start with, you can make up the huge backlog of gossip you've failed to share with me over these 'months'." I know I sound cross, but it's better than crying. Tears seem odds-on favourite for the next few minutes though, so I turn and head into his tiny kitchenette.

Oh... bloody hell. There's enough dirty dishes stacked higgledy-piggledy in here to almost convince me he hasn't done the washing up for 'months' either. I don't want to look too closely; the way he's got the heating turned up in the flat, the next Ebola could be breeding in the debris. "You're a pig, boy," I mutter to myself, my heart sinking as I admit to myself that I'm going to have to wash all this lot before I leave today.

"Thanks," Joseph says dolefully behind me. "Is that for the mess or for my silence on certain matters?"

I turn to face him as, even hungover and pasty-faced, he's a much prettier view than his kitchen. "Both? I'm really... I thought we told each other everything, hon." My voice catches at the end there, and I look down.

I watch his feet shuffle closer. "We do. I wanted to; I begged to be able to. He wouldn't let me because he said telling you would be the same as outing himself to everyone."

"He's a bastard." Does Thom think so little of me? He seemed quite civil last night. Our short time going out wasn't that disastrous; wasn't that interesting either, which is why it ended as quickly as it did, but that's no reason to hate me. Of course, knowing what I now know, I suppose he could simply be jealous...

"Yeah, at times." Joseph says, head hung. "Ah, he's an arse; I know he is. But I..."

"Love him?" I fill in, and he frowns.

"Need him."

I snort softly, knowing perfectly well how much Thom means to Joseph. How much he's meant for as long as I've known them both. "Isn't it about time you told me where your hang-ups around admitting you love Thom stem from? You know, along with all the rest of the stuff you haven't told me, your best friend, about him?"

He pouts, looking genuinely upset, raking his fingers through his hair. "You think I know? I'm just fucked up."

"Yeah, hon," I say softly, stepping close enough to pull him into a hug. "You're divinely, beautifully fucked up; just like the rest of us really, but we don't get so much of the beautiful with our hang-ups. I still think you know where this particular short-circuit in your head comes from, though, and I think you've nearly told me a couple of times in the past too, just chickened out at the last minute."

He wraps his arms around me and lays his cheek on the top of my head. I'm thinking this is just his way of saying sorry for not telling me this thing either, on top of all the others, but then he says, "It's a stupid story. You'd wonder what the hell I was making such a fuss about. I wonder that myself, all the bloody time. That's why I've never told you; 'cause I feel like such an idiot for making such a big deal out of something that isn't. At all. But..."

I make soothing movements with my hands over his back while trying to ignore the stink coming from his kitchen bin. "But?"

He snorts softly. I feel his breath in my hair. "But I'll tell you if it'll help make things up to you. I've been feeling so bad about keeping things secret from you."

Oh, but so much of me wants to take him up on that, but the moral minority in my head wins yet again; I can't ever see why it manages that so often. "It's all right, sweetie," I tell him. "I won't blackmail you into telling something you're not ready to share. You know you're already forgiven, don't you?"

"Am I? Not sure I deserve to be." He pulls away from me with a small sigh. "I unfortunately seem to remember last night rather well. Where's the justice in that? A hangover this big should come with merciful amnesia."

"I'm glad you remember; I wouldn't fancy the job of informant." I wonder if he knows I saw them in the kitchen together. "Let's boil the kettle and have a nice chat over a cuppa."

After some unpleasant moments finding and thoroughly disinfecting two mugs while the kettle comes to the boil, I finally get us both sitting in his sofa, tea in one hand and an only slightly stale choccy digestive in the other.

"That's better," he says, proving yet again that his mouth is lined with fire-proofing by drinking great gulps of kettle-hot tea in order to swallow some painkillers. "Or at least getting better." He stuffs the rest of his biscuit into his mouth and leans back into the sofa.

I sip more cautiously at my mug. "So, time to spill all."

"Hmm." He finishes his mouthful and then turns his head on the sofa back to face me. "Well, this is going to be embarrassing. Can't you ask questions?"

Yeah, why not? "How did you finally get together?"

"Ah, well, remember that awful night I got him really bloody drunk and kissed him?"

"Well, I remember the day after all right."

"Er, yeah. Sorry about that."

"It's what friends are for," I say dryly. I'm not sure the normal duties of friends include having to forcibly stop them indulging in self-destructive fits set to use up the deposit on this place five times over, but being friends with a Joseph certainly means that and more.

"Well, anyway. That's kind of where it began. Only neither of us knew it until a few weeks later when he gave me a private tutorial in self-defence down in his basement."

"Ah ha, the classic fight-becomes-hot-sex scenario?" Oh God, I can just imagine it. I really, really can.

"Yeah, pretty much. And, well, he freaked out a little, but not for long. You know Thom. He laughs in the face of terror, spits in the eye of dare-nots and all that. And we've been shagging ever since." He sighs heavily. "He's more or less lived here the last few weeks."

"That's why you insisted on coming round to mine those times rather than me come to you."

"Yeah. Well, that and the godawful mess."

"Yes, I noticed the shit-heap aspect of the apartment décor is even more in evidence than usual. I guess you've been too busy to care." Finishing my biccie, I put my free hand on his. "Sweetie?"

"Mmm?"

"You don't sound very happy for someone whose dream has come true."

"Heh." He stares, eyes front.

"Talk to me?"

"Could all be over by now," he says dully. "Dream come; dream stay just long enough for me to never be able to do without it; dream go bye-bye."

I frown. "Did you and he have a row before he left then?"

"Nah... but once he's had time to think through what he did last night I can't see him wanting to stay."

Ah, the alcohol-poisoning induced anxiety attack. I should've expected this. "Darling, he came out in a very graphic fashion to a bunch of friends. That's not something you can undo the next morning no matter how much you regret it, and... are you really sure he does?"

"He values his reputation. You know, as a tough guy, all that macho crap. Coming out will totally undermine it, and he knows it and hates the bloody idea."

"And yet he still did it?"

"I kind of forced him to -- by my behaviour last night."

"Which behaviour in particular?" I ask carefully, picking at some white deposit on the chair arm.

Joseph's eyes are narrowed when he looks at me. "With Angus? You can't have failed to notice how I let myself be molested and then got hauled off to the kitchen for my crimes."

"Ah, that behaviour." I decide to ignore the 'molested'. Poor Angus. I'm going to have to do a lot of making up to him. "And that forced Thom to come out why?"

"Well, it was enough to make people really suspicious, surely, and there was other stuff... when... in the kitchen... er, stuff was said." Even if I didn't know already, that mumbling and blushing would have pretty much confirmed things for me. Silly boy.

"It was?" I say. Oh God, and I can't resist it. "I didn't notice much talking going on when I walked in..."

The look he's giving me now is almost cartoonish, so exaggerated is his 'O' of horror. "No..." he says faintly.

I laugh and pat his hand in apology and then laugh some more. "It really was very hot, honey. I was thinking of asking you to install a spy camera in your bedroom for me so I could see some more."

Joseph whimpers, taking his hand from under mine and wrapping both arms around his legs as he draws them up onto the sofa. "Oh God... We still bezzies, darling?"

"Of course, silly. Always. As if giving me some free gay porn is anything to end a friendship over. I think you've forgotten who's sitting next to you here." He looks over at that, and I smile reassuringly, patting my lap. "Come on, lay your head down and let me look after you. Then you can tell me all about the 'months'."

He finishes his tea and does what he's told, laying on his back on the couch, his legs hanging over the far armrest and his head in my lap. He closes his eyes and lets me stroke his hair. For a few minutes, we sit quietly like this, and I begin to wonder if he's falling asleep.

So I say quietly, "I think you must be very good at what you do, you know, darling. If you can be that drunk and still get that amount of noise out of Thom."

His eyes shutter open. "Bitch! You're outrageous."

"Oh no, you don't get to call me that 'til I've had sex in your kitchen... and yuck, no thanks. I do have some standards."

"I hate you."

"I love you too."

He smiles up at me, more than a little sappily. Then his smile fractures into a zigzag of uncertainty. "You really think Thom won't be regretting last night? Really?"

"Thom doesn't look back, hon. You were the one who told me that." I let my empty mug drop to the trash pile at the side of the sofa. "I don't think he looks forward much either. Even if he is feeling uneasy, you'll only have to get him making those interesting noises again, get him solidly in the now... or in your mouth as the case may be, and he'll forget anything that was bothering him."

He hits me softly with the back of his hand. "You're so wicked."

"Be glad of it."

"I am." He turns to face my belly and seems to be trying to burrow into it. I'm sure Freud would have something to say about that. "You're my lifesaver."

I wish he'd chosen a different word. Still, I cuddle him close; it's not exactly a hardship. "Anything for my little brother."

There's a pause and then a muffled, "I'm both older and taller than you, darling."

"I was talking about mental age, of course." That gets me hit again and I giggle. There's something pale in his hair. My fingers unknot a sticky twist of what looks horribly like a chew wrapper. "Your hair is tangled. You should let me brush it for you."

"Later maybe," he says, pulling back just a little, just enough to be able to breathe by the look of it. "I'm too comfy to move right now. You have the softest thighs." He pokes at them as if trying to soften them further.

"I exist just as your pillow," I say dryly, gently slapping his poking hand away. "At least entertain me as you lie there. What kind of lover is Thom then?"

"Don't you already know?"

I sigh. "What kind of gay lover? I'm expecting superlatives after what you said yesterday about the musclebound and vain."

"He's... incredible. Better than I ever imagined, and when you consider my imagination..." Joseph shakes his head then turns to face the ceiling again, his eyes closed. "It scares me, if you want the truth."

"Too good?"

"Yeah. Yeah..." He sighs, raising his hand to his mouth. He chews on a nail for a few moments before adding in a mumble, "I'm ruined for anyone else now."

"You always were, honey. You've never really wanted anyone but him." I lift a strand of hair away from his face.

"Yeah, I know. I know. It's worse now though. Can't rationalise my obsession away as fantasy anymore. Things would've been so much easier if he'd disappointed..."

"A clean break."

"It could've been. I'm well and truly araldited now though." He draws a loud, deep breath in through his nose and lets it go again. "If there's a break now, it'll be dirty as fuck."

It always would've been, no matter how he wants to paint the now and then of it, but I'll let him believe this fantasy; it's harmless. "The thing about araldite is that it sticks both ways."

"Can but hope, eh?" He shorts softly. "If I can only stop myself buggering it up."

"Do you think you're likely to?"

More nail-biting. Finally, Joseph says, "Sometimes I just want to get it over and done with. If pain... loss is unavoidable, why prolong the agony by putting it off? It's the difference between running away from the psycho in your dreams -- getting ever more knackered and terrified, ever more a mindless animal -- and simply turning to confront the bastard, no fight, no flight. Let the axe come and do what it will. In the end, you will anyway. In the end, death's always better than more screaming, more running and hiding, more desperate struggling and pleading. Everyone surrenders in the end. So... why put it off?"

"You're so bloody defeatist," I say, hearing tightness in my own voice. "That makes sense in dreams. Maybe. Not so much in real life. Death's inevitable and, by your logic, that means there's no point in living at all. And don't you dare tell me that's so."

"I never said it was logical," he says sulkily.

"Yeah, sorry, you didn't."

There's a long silence, but I don't mind; I spend it studying the pale face beneath me. Joseph's eyes are closed, but he looks far from relaxed. His face is screwed up in a painful frown, and he's making a four-course meal out of his poor nails. I listen to the rain softly hitting the room's one window, and then I take my specs off and put them on the chair-arm. My world is now comfortingly blurred again as if I'm looking at everything through rain-washed glass.

Eventually I say, "'Months' means this is the most successful relationship either of you have ever had, you know."

"Yeah, we're both perfectly aware of that one."

"So that's got to be a hopeful sign then, for the future."

"I don't believe in hope."

"Then you're a liar." I'm getting a little cross now, I think. "If you didn't have hope for a better future you would have turned around to meet that falling axe long before now."

He humphs. "I meant that I think hope is a fallacy, an illusion, not that I don't share the damn illusion. It's a matter of chemicals and instincts -- tools of the selfish gene inside our cells, keeping us going as long as possible to increase the chance of immortality through offspring."

"A pretty pointless ambition in your case," I point out, moving a hand down to his bare chest and playing my fingers in the small patch of dark hair over his breastbone.

He snorts. "Wouldn't you be a mother for my child, darling? I'm hurt. I'd give you my very best cup of cold spunk as well."

"I might." I can't seem to consider this as the bitter little joke he seems to have intended. The thought of having his kid stirs strange and uneasy feelings inside me. I feel them, but can't quite name them. Who knew I had motherhood issues? "Can't see me becoming a parent any other way, after all."

"Why the hell not?" He sits up suddenly, frowning at me. "Have you given up on men completely now?"

I stare in the direction of his face. "Why are you acting as if this is news? When was the last time I went out with a man? A straight man, I mean."

"I thought you..." He looks confused, looks down at his hands. "So you've just stopped looking then? You've given up?"

I shrug, missing the weight of his head on my lap. "I really don't like straight men, hon. Or rather, I really don't like what they want from me."

His hand reaches out and long fingers gently stroke my face. "Everyone needs love."

"Yes, and I have it." I glare at him, daring him to deny it.

"Yes, you do. Of course you do. You know I adore you, and I'm not the only one who does. But my love isn't enough, darling; I can't give you everything you need."

"You give me all I need. Can we talk about something else? Such as why you have no problem loving me and admitting it and can't even say the word in the same sentence as 'Thom'?"

He stares at me a while longer then lays back down. His hair spreads over my jeans like a black napkin. "Christ, we're a pair. So utterly fucked up, the both of us."

I say nothing; well, I'm hardly going to argue, am I?

"I'm going to tell you why I can't tell Thom I lo-- how I feel about him," he says decisively. "And you're going to tell me why you've turned right off sex in the last few years."

Ugh. Ugh, ugh, bloody ugh. "No. I'm really not. It's not something I want to talk about, and anyway, it's not a new problem. I simply gave up on running from your psycho's axe, gave up trying to pretend I liked it."

"Did something happen to you?" he asks very quietly.

"Not in the way you mean. Drop this. Please, honey."

He sighs. "So much for us telling each other everything."

"That's unfair."

"Is it? Not sure why. Oh well, I'm going to tell you my story anyway. Then you can laugh at me for my idiocy. When I was ten, as you know, my dad left my mum."

I had bet myself it was something to do with his absent father. I make an encouraging noise for him to continue.

"The last time I ever saw him was when he came to my room the night before he left. He told me he was going, but that I'd still see him. Just as soon as he'd found a new place and settled down, he would come round to collect me for a weekend. It might take a few months so I'd have to be patient. But I mustn't worry because he loved me, and when people love each other, they can't leave them, not really. They'll always come back. So I must never doubt I'd see him again. Because he loved me."

"But he never came."

"Never. Every night, I got myself to sleep by reminding myself that he loved me, that he'd come and collect me for that weekend soon because he loved me, but he never came. Months passed. Eventually I made one of those jumps of false logic that kids do and decided it was my fault. He'd said 'when people love each other, they can't leave them'. But he'd left, and so either he didn't love me, or... Or I didn't love him. Not enough or in the right way or something. Either way, there was something wrong with me. Of course, I already knew the way I loved was wrong, even then."

"It isn't wrong, and you know it." I shake my head, bringing a hand up to rub over my eyes. "So love became... what for you? Betrayal? Proof of your own version of original sin?" I can feel my frown like a heavy hat that's slipped low on my brow.

"Both, I suppose." He shifts restlessly on the sofa. "Why aren't you laughing, darling? You should be; it's funny in an absurdist kind of way."

"It's not remotely funny, Joseph," I say, meaning it. "So why can you love me? Because of your mum?"

"I think it really is as simplistic as gender on this one, I'm ashamed to say. She's always been there for me, always loved me despite all my many failings as a son, and she always will as long as we both shall live and all that. Just like you, my dear. Women do love so much better than men do it. And it is funny. Fucking hilarious. My father left me nothing as a legacy bar a few photos and a neurosis so ridiculous I can't even take it seriously."

"Thom's not your father."

"And you're not my mother -- you did understand the whole 'irrational neurosis' thing, yeah?"

"Yeah, sorry. Did your father just disappear altogether then? I never realised it was quite that... brutal."

"He never got in contact again with any of us, nor with his own family unless they were lying; I've never been sure about that one. Mum said it was because he didn't want to pay maintenance for us kids. We weren't even worth his time, let alone his cash, so I don't know why that should've come as a surprise."

"Thom wasn't ever meant to want you back, was he?" I say it without thinking, words forming almost as fast as the realisation comes to me.

"Huh?"

I stroke his hair, trying to soothe him or me; I'm not sure which. "He was safe to want, to love, because he'd never leave, having not ever really been there in the first place."

"Fuck off, darling," Joseph says exasperatedly. "Really, I just don't want to understand myself that much."

"Tough. And anyway, you wouldn't have told me if you didn't want my take on it." I sigh. "I think we both need lessons on 'finding the fun', you know."

He sits up and shuffles close to me, lifting his hand to my cheek and staring me in the eyes. I try to meet his gaze; it's probably easier done when half-blind like this actually. Then he leans forward and kisses me softly, leaving his lips on mine for several seconds before pulling back. His breath doesn't exactly smell fresh, but it's a sweet kiss all the same.

"What was that for?" I ask, bemused.

"Wouldn't it solve everything, darling? You can't love straight men; I can't love men full stop. If we could just love each other..."

"You're mixing up sex and love," I say bluntly. In very few ways is Joseph a typical man, but he's certainly living down to his gender on this one. "We do love each other. We don't fancy each other." Or at least, he doesn't fancy me, and I only fancy him because it's safe.

He puffs air through clenched teeth, a fed up kind of noise. "Do you really hate sex? Truly? I mean, you always talk to me as if... And fuck, we watch porn together; you always enjoy that." He gives me a 'shock-horror' look. "Tell me you haven't been faking your appreciative noises, darling!"

I shake my head and look ceiling-ward. "I love gay sex; you know I do. Men fucking men is where it's at."

"Sex you can't join in with," he says bluntly.

"Yup, exactly." Or rather sex no one would expect me to join in with. "Want another cuppa?"

He tuts and rolls his eyes, standing up. "I'll make this one."

I reach over the arm of the sofa, feeling for my mug in the congregated rubbish so I can hand it to him, and then he wanders over to his kitchenette. I watch him move about in there, a black and white shape against a more chaotic background. Then he comes back out, heading behind the sofa. An explosion of EBM starts up and almost immediately stops again, leaving me blinking. Far quieter, softer music then slowly fills the room. I recognise Lisa Gerrald's warbling and Arabesque instrumentation.

Joseph stands in front of me, holding a hand out. "Dance with me."

I snort softly and smile as I take the hand and let him pull me up. He guides me around to an empty patch of floor, kicking away rubbish from my path -- a kindness as I really can't see a damn thing with my glasses off.

We wrap our arms around each other and move close, beginning a slow spiralling shuffle, less a dance than a quiet psychodrama, really. I rest my head against his bare shoulder and close my eyes, feeling him kiss my hair. "Tell me about sex with Thom then," I say. "Or is he too... whatever for you to share details with me like you usually do?"

"No," Joseph answers slowly, he voice sounding deeper somehow in this position. "No, he's not. It's not like it'd bother him. He wants everyone to know he's God's gift, after all."

"So tell me then." I pat his bum encouragingly.

I feel him nod. "Oh, it's sodding incredible, Claire. Amazing like you wouldn't believe."

"Details," I prompt, as he seems to need one.

"I'll try and describe a typical, um, encounter for you, shall I? Let's see. Would you prefer urgent 'I've not seen you all day' taking me hard over the coffee table, or slow, sensual, 'I really don't want to go to work today' early morning shagging?" He laughs. "Oh, or there's always 'I've already had you three times in the last two hours, but I want you again this instant, get naked now' sex. That one's fun. It normally happens when I'm trying to work. He doesn't like my attention to be not on him."

Oh, I can well believe that. "Tell me that one then."

"Ok. Well, there was the perfect example yesterday before he went home to get ready for going to yours. I was working on the computer. Well, talking to Chris actually, not working, but anyway, that's where my focus was being directed. He hated it and tried all sorts of ways to recapture my attention, most of them really rather... engaging. I prolonged the chat with Chris a little longer than I needed to, just to see what he would do next."

I giggle. "Wicked boy. Tell me what he tried."

"Oh, a, erm, talented amateur blowjob, which would've completely unmanned me had I not successfully managed to interrupt him. But what got me in the end was him striking poses, showing off his lovely body to me, his muscles all flexed and perfect, his hand on his cock, wanking..."

"He's so vain."

"Yeah, but he has a right to be, doesn't he? I mean, it worked. I just couldn't hold out any longer when I saw him like that. God..."

I can feel him growing a little hard against my belly. But that's all right as I know his erection isn't for me. I press a little closer as we shuffle. "And then what happened?"

He laughs again, the noise low and sensual. "He picked me up over his shoulder and then threw me on the bed. Before I could even catch my breath, he was on top of me, wrestling my hands above my head."

"Christ, he's such a trashy romance novel hero. And I bet you just lap it up." I'm feeling very hot, being cuddled like this, in the purely temperature-related sense. Joseph has the heating up so high, and unlike him, I'm not half-naked. I kick off my shoes at least, immediately losing a couple of inches more height against him.

Well, ok, not entirely just in the temperature-related sense.

"Course I do," Joseph says. "Jesus, he knows just how to treat me without me ever saying, you know. He takes control immediately, puts me where he wants me, takes me how he feels like taking me at the time, my wishes in the matter never coming into it, and fuck. Oh fuck, Claire, it's so good. It's perfect. Other men have... have played the role, said the right words, done the right things, but they were no more dominating me than I was them. We both knew it was some kind of farce really. With Thom though, there's no play-acting. Thom's... Thom is..."

"Your master."

He makes a noise halfway between a gasp and a ragged breath. "Yes." He rubs his face against my hair and holds me tighter still, one hand on my neck, the other on my lower back. "And not in some tawdry leather and chains way, either."

We're both breathing pretty heavily now. "So how did he take you?" I ask.

"From behind, which was not what I wanted. But he told me to turn over, and I did, just like that. And... oh... He feels so large inside of me, even larger than he is, I mean. Does that make sense?"

"Perfect sense. You've always been two or three times more aware of him than you are other people." My socked feet are treading on all sorts of small items of clutter as we move. I count my blessings that none of them have actually stuck to me yet.

"Heh. Yeah, you're right as usual." His hand moves up into my hair, stroking. "So he's in me and moving so slowly with that perfect bloody self-control of his. I hate him so much sometimes when he does that to me, but of course, when he finally lets me come, the hate is consumed to nothing in the... the inferno. He's breaking down barriers, you see, when he slow-fucks me regardless of my pleas and swearing. I don't know if he knows that's what he's doing, but he is. He's tearing down the barricades, smashing the atom, freeing... me."

"Your master is your liberator." I smile against his skin. "I like that."

He chuckles softly. "Eventually, once I was pretty much out of my mind with need, he pulled me up onto my hands and knees so he could reach my cock. Even then he didn't do more than squeeze it in the same dirge rhythm he was fucking me. It was enough though." Joseph stops us moving, his hands suddenly moving to my cheeks, and he tips my face up to look at him. Well, blear. "Christ, I thought I was going to pass out, darling. Think I almost did. Do you see what I mean now about how the vain make the best lovers?"

I smile, feeling flushed and happy. "I'm not sure it's Thom's vanity that makes him so good. He's always been thorough, been prepared to work damn hard to get something right. Physical things anyway." Not that he did much for me, but that was probably my fault in retrospect. "Plus, much though I hate to admit it, I think you're ideally suited in some ways."

"Oh, that's old news, honey. I knew that my first day at my new school when he first walked into the classroom. It was almost as if Mr Tyler knew it too; it was Thom he asked to be my guide for my first day, to make sure I didn't get lost."

"And so he started Thom in the habit of looking after you? Cute. I wish I'd known you then."

"Oh, I was a horrid little brat." He moves his fingers slowly against my face. "Very immature in a lot of different ways. I'm glad you never witnessed them." For a moment I think he's going to kiss me again, but then he lets me go completely. "Kettle boiled five minutes ago," he says with a laugh as he steps back.

As he strides off towards towards the kitchen, I call out, "We can watch some more porn if you like."

"Sure," he says with a little laugh, kicking something across the floor towards the kitchen bin. "Got a new DVD just today through the post from an old uni mate. We can watch that. He says it's just exactly my sort of thing."

"Good." As that means it will be just exactly my sort of thing as well.

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