Thank you to those lovely people who left a review for the last chapter. As promised, we've moved on in time now (avoids repetition and it gets them fixed quicker!) - as always, your thoughts are great to hear thanks! A bit nervous as the therapy is reaching acute therapy stages...


Christian grimaces, his eyes half opened to the sunlight piercing the slats and the drum beat pounding the back of his skull. The three brain cells that are still living try to fumble through what happened, clambering to fulfil their role of stringing together flashes of noise and lights in the dark. He thinks he would be used to it again after more than a month, that his body would have understood this is what it did now, that that year and a bit of difference was fleeting and never something that was going to stick. Slowly, he registers that a weight is dipping the other side of the bed and he turns his head tentatively to see a squashed passed out face. 'A pretty one' he concludes, at least. Christian sighs, rolling himself flatly onto his back. His mouth tastes like cheap vodka and unfamiliar man and suddenly he wants nothing more than to be alone. He tells himself this is because he is bored, that he has had his fun and is ready to discard the cause. It does not mean what was pleasure is now pathetic or that the speed in which that changes is considerably greater than it used to be.

He lifts an arm out of the crimson sheets and pokes the body next to him.

"Hey," he states roughly, "I've got work."

There is a grumble and the figure turns gradually, squinting from the shock of the awakening and the creep of the light. The first glance was right; he's pretty, ridiculously young looking, and pretty. Christian remembers to congratulate himself on that.

"Shame", the voice mumbles, moving dutifully to get out of the sheets. "No classes, I'm on holiday - could have stayed here."

"Yeah it's a shame," Christian says on default, having found the old lines with alarming ease. "Wait - what?" he stutters, turning his head with a speed he regrets. "Class? Tell me you are fucking legal."

"Jesus how young do I look?"

It's said with a laugh, though Christian feels little like returning it.

"Take that as a compliment, you'll want it in twenty years," he says flatly, feeling older as each word leaves him.

"Yes I'm legal, no I'm not at school," he tells him, adding with the impression of reassurance, "I'm first year geography at LSE."

Christian shakes his head slowly, unmoving from his back spread flat on the bed. He considers pulling the sheet over to hide his face and supposes he should be grateful at still possessing the sensation of what is something like shame. The sickness he feels in the pit of his stomach is the aftermath of the vodka though, he tells himself, and not for a second an ache at the thought of what he would think.

"Don't you remember last night?" the voice continues. "You said it made me exotic and that you wanted to see how many countries I could name as you blew me."

"Charming."

"Twenty seven if you'd forgotten," he murmurs low, as if trying for something. "I told you I was impressive."

"I'm sure."

He is watched as he moves at the subtle hint of being ignored, Christian prising one eye half open to monitor him swinging a leg over the bed and beginning the hunt for his clothes. He had probably been keen last night, why wouldn't he be, must have appeared as if he lived in these places, knew exactly what to do, as if he had been born to it, or had done it enough times to act as if he had. He must be a disappointment now he thought, though he was unsure if he cared.

"Have you seen my boxers?"

The strained voice takes him back to where he was. He manages some form of answer;

"Try the floor."

"Good idea."

Christian turns his head on the pillow slightly and pauses at the sight of a bending arse. He's alive, he reminds himself, and stares at the shape of it as it curves in the search for clothes. The bit of his heart that he has allowed to keep working, perhaps due to its link with his groin, gives him a flash of golden taut perfection that makes this otherwise fine one look a mess. The memories his mind cannot begin to think of are the disciplining grumble of 'You threw them somewhere, Christian you always throw them' or the heart-pulling smile that would stretch to light his eyes as he turned.

"Michael," he hears himself say.

"Are you talking to me?"

"Who the fuck else would I be speaking to?"

"Mitchell."

The curve disappears as he turns, half smiling;

"That being my name."

"Shit, sorry," Christian exhales, and he might mean it. "Vodka brain. Mitchell, of course it is."

"Don't worry. If I wanted that sort of attention I'd let my mum set me up with her librarian's son. If I wanted to be fucked, I'd let men like you invite me home."

He stills as he wonders what a man like him exactly is. It hurts there though and he opts to concentrate on the bits he can handle, the bits that will bring him passing pleasure.

"That I can do."

"I thought you had to work."

"I lied."

He grabs him, pushing his dry tongue into an eager mouth, running his hands along skin and flesh, the taste and the touch giving something as his heart thumps a beat.

"Are you sure?"

This is where he should be murmuring with arrogant swag that 'I can fuck you so hard you won't even remember your name' but the words don't slip from his tongue. He doesn't know if he's being looked at doubtingly or if it's in his mind but the words aren't coming so he just flips him around. It worked it seems, as he hears a quiet moan from under him, sees the arch of a white back dragged off the sheet.

Christian notices the lube at the base of the bed, where he supposes he had left it, and grabs it, murmuring, "Get a condom. Top drawer."

"You're out," comes the depleted response.

"Ur...bottom draw. There's spares."

He hears the slide of another drawer and the familiar but delayed fumble.

"Who's this?"

"What?" he exhales, leaning to take over the search.

"An ex-boyfriend?" it continues. "Or the current one? He's not going to come walking through the door is he?"

Christian registers a silver frame being held and stills suddenly, staring at a chosen snap shot of happiness he had stored away at 2am weeks ago, close enough for comfort but hidden enough as not to add to hurt. The wind is blowing stray dark curls onto that face that is smiling, dipped into his neck with laughing protests that shake lips into his skin. They kiss there as much for love as teased hiding, a cold beach in him, like there is nothing else.

"Do you like Asian guys?"

Words are being spoken he thinks, his mind staring at a stranger's hand, a stranger's hand marking it.

"He's gorgeous."

Christian murmurs;

"Put it down."

"What?"

"The photo," he shakes.

"What..."

"Just put it down, leave it. Just leave it!"


"You can leave it all or change it. It's lovely Syed."

Syed smiles thankfully, watching Tanya do her best attempt at making moving into a flat alone seem a positive thing. He thought someone should.

"I love the bathroom," she calls. "Might be nice to put your own mark on things though. If you fix up the back wall here it'll be perfect. Maybe tile it?"

"I don't know..." he wanders.

"Greg'll do it for you. I'll make sure he gives you a good deal," she smiles with an encouraging glint as she emerges back out to the living area.

Syed wonders how he can tell her that he doesn't want anything doing to the flat, that doing something would imply this was permanent, that this was his home now and not just somewhere to stay temporarily before he got back to his real life. She'd been so kind and enthusiastic, and considering they hadn't known each other that long had volunteered readily for man analysis and general comfort. Other people spoke of redecoration and he'd barely been able to think about leaving the B and B. If it hadn't have been for Tamwar's increasingly furrowed brow of concern and the fact that the payments were leading to near bankruptcy, he'd still be there now. The flat was a decent distance at least, close enough to walk to work but not so close as to have to face daily sights he couldn't bear. The part of him that remembered caring about property told himself this made complete financial sense, that he had got himself a brilliant deal on rent, that grown men needed a home. The rest of him that only cared about one thing knew his real home was sitting above a chip shop, and he needed to be reminded often that no one was there.

"Maybe. Thanks," he managed politely.

"No one thinks badly of you, you know."

Syed looks up quickly at the statement.

"You getting your own place, unpacking your things..." she explains gently, "What's it been now, five, six weeks? You're allowed to do it. It doesn't mean you gave up, that you don't care."

"No?" he asks genuinely. "What does it mean?"

"That you're letting yourself try and get on with your life. That you deserve more than being miserable or being in limbo."

Syed shuts out the knowingly unhealthy voice that tells him he would take misery and limbo with the man he loved over misery and moving on alone. His mind must be visibly wandering as Tanya tries to grin;

"Now you're single, I might have a go. One obstacle down, just a minor one to go."

He wants to laugh for her, but ends up confessing instead;

"I don't even think of myself as single."

He shakes his head at himself.

"That's really pathetic, isn't it?"

"No. No of course it isn't. It shows how lovely you are...and how important the relationship was. That doesn't go away...believe me. Have you spoken to him at all?"

"Not a word," Syed says flatly. "I see him sometimes, on the way to the gardens or the gym...I know his routine though, I try and avoid it. It's too hard... Sometimes I see him and I want to talk to him, well I mean I always want to talk to him, but sometimes I think I should. Roxy's usually there though and..."

"She's doing her best impression of a guard dog?"

"I wouldn't say..."

"Well I would. A bulldog...chewing a wasp most days. Ignore it. If you want to talk to him, talk to him. She may think she's in charge, but she isn't. Just go and talk to him, eh?"

"I think I might have said enough," he murmurs, before stopping his head running over the list of things he had let spill out the last time they spoke and which one could be blamed for striking the final blow.

"Ignore me, please. I'm being maudlin, I'm sorry...it's the lack of food."

"Oh yeah, course...not that you're being maudlin' or if you were that you wouldn't have a good reason to be...but the starving won't help."

"We prefer fasting rather than starving..."

"Sorry," she whispers, putting her hand over her mouth. "Was that offensive?"

"I'm joking," he manages to laugh.

"Ha good. I don't know how you do it. Though..." she runs her hands along the curve of her waist, "...it might take a couple of inches off."

"Stop it, you're perfect."

"Aww," she smiles. "Being gay eh, least you avoid mental women asking you if their bum looks big in this..."

"I don't know, men can be just the same. Christian used to hate it, moan how I could eat anything at my age and that he was getting podgy. I'd have to convince him that he was imagining things and that he was gor – "

Syed's words dry in his throat and he smiles apologetically.

"But yeah, fasting has it's good and bad sides. Actually, now you mention it I'm pretty knackered. I think I might make the most of no clients this afternoon, try and rest for a bit..."

"Oh course," she says, grabbing her bag off the rented beige sofa.

"Thank you for coming to look at the place, it was really lovely of you."

"Don't be daft, any time. Besides, gave me a chance to nose round."

"Not exactly much to nose around..." he says, glancing at the minimal surroundings.

"You've only just moved in," she smiles in reassurance, "Give it time and you'll have made your mark on the place. It'll feel like home."

Syed smiles back politely before pressing himself against the shut door, unable to quash her kindness with the truth that anywhere without him feeling like home is the last thing he could ever want.


Christian leans on the door slightly, pulling it open before turning away. He doesn't need to check who it is beyond a glance at peroxide strands, the routine as such as it is now engrained. He knows that he doesn't need even this briefest of glances to be aware who it is that was knocking, and tells himself there is nothing depressing in that. It would be funny, if he were capable of the laugh, that nothing used to bring more simple pleasure than the rattling of keys in the door and knowing his one person was about to walk through it.

"You look rough," he hears Roxy announce.

"You look like you put your make-up on with a trowel."

"Christian Clarke, you bitch."

"I'm here all week."

He turns in concession, giving his best impression of a smile.

"I'm also hung-over."

"I'd picked that up. A good one was it?" she asks, with that raised eyebrow and pitch of her voice that's requesting details, like this is fascinating, like she actually believes this could be defined as good.

"Up and down."

"You can get a pill for that."

"You're funny today."

"Someone's got to be. Is he still here anyway?"

"Who?"

"Whoever got you up and down?"

"God no, it's midday, what am I?"

"I thought the plan was to, and I quote, 'have a fitty every morning through August with the sun streaming on my perfect chiselled face, because I fucking can and they will be lucky to have it'?"

Christian winces.

"Yeah well I speak shit when I'm drunk. Feel free not to ever quote any of that. Ever."

"No I admire your optimism. I don't know how you're getting laid at all Christian."

"Excuse me?"

"You're gorgeous but babe, you've got a face like a smacked arse. I say this because I love you – you gotta smile. It's getting miserable."

He sighs, dragging a hand over his sensitised face.

"I know okay, I know. It's just the hang-over cycle. Your body feels like shit, you're a misery. I just need a few days off, sort myself out."

"No you just need to sort your head out. Go out, get drunk, have fun with me, have fun with whatever fitty you want to find, but stop thinking about him. It's him that's making you miserable."

He says quietly, the truth no easier weeks later;

"He isn't here Roxy."

"Exactly. He left you. He broke your heart again. He makes you miserable when he's here, he makes you miserable when he's not. He's more trouble than he's worth, he always was. What you need is someone fun, someone who's going to make you smile."

She leans up to place her hands on his cheeks.

"I miss that Christian Clarke smile. That one when you're getting us into trouble, when you've got a bad little plan. And some vodka."

"I've got that..."

"Come out with me tonight."

"No Rox, I can't. My head's still pounding..."

"But I can come tonight," she pouts.

"So I'm supposed to go out based on when you've got a sitter for Amy?"

"Yes."

He finds himself laughing, knowing he'll cave in seconds.

"It's hard when it's Amy's number one bestest baby-sitter who I want to go out with."

"So who's taking care of her tonight?"

"Her dad."

"A radical idea."

"Hey when you've got yourself a little one you'll know how it feels."

"Yeah..."

"So what do you say then?"

"What?"

"Coming out tonight?"

"Fine," he concedes. "But Vauxhall."

She groans;

"It's sweaty there."

"I want sweat."

"I don't."

"Well considering biologically no one anywhere we'll go is going to want you, that doesn't really matter."

"Fine, but I'm not standing outside a cubicle trying not to see whilst you get blown okay. Not again."

"Believe me darlin', that turns me on even less than it turns on you."

"Funny. See, you're funny again!"

She jumps up as he turns, striving for a half piggy back as she hops and gleams;

"This is going to be so good."

"Yeah," Christian replies, and he almost believes it himself.