I know Wilson couldn't care less about me at the moment – and I don't blame him. But I'm happy to wait.
Oh, come on; it's not as if no-one ever guessed. The weird things that go through some people's minds; I expect we've done a lot less than people would have you believe. They're all wrong, you know. They don't know the first thing about James and I. With all their 'knowing' looks and their throwaway comments, they don't know a fucking thing.
He's asleep now, at last. He didn't show any sign of having heard me an hour or so ago, when I was sitting in the chair chatting to him, but it's only in the past few minutes that his breathing has slowed, and he's rolled onto his other side, to face me. The racking gasps I ignored earlier have subsided, thank God. I hate to see his upset.
I like to watch him sleep, though. It sounds bad, but… when he's asleep; he's entirely dependent on his surroundings; vulnerable to the smallest thing. And when he's asleep, curled into that tight, tense ball, it's like he feels free to open up and show me a part of himself. No, I don't mean all that pre-coital messing around. I'd be ashamed to say it when he's awake, but it is deeper than bare flesh. It's something about that rawness that cuts me so deeply.
That's a bad choice of words. I know his problems, though he'd like to think he can keep it a secret. Nothing's hidden from me: he should know that. But what the fuck can I do about it? We both know it's going to take time. So give me a chance. Just give me a chance.