AN: In this universe Tam and Afia are not engaged and Afia's family are completely unknown, ie no Yusef.

I seem to be having brain sharing issues at the moment and on reading recent chapters by the amazing Mushroom Hair and the fabulous The Ninth Circle I have spotted a couple of similarities between their fics and a couple of parts of this chapter (that I had already written). All such similarities are entirely coincedental and I think (hope!) distinct enough. Sincere apologies and I hope no offence is taken.

This chapter is quite long but I couldn't split it up, so sorry! Would love to know what you think x


I hear a familiar laugh, her over-compensatory, slightly anxious, but yet rather annoyed laugh, the one she used when a particularly important client interfered with the table decorations or argued over the need for an extra dish. The laugh that said oh of course, in public and who does she think she is? in private. For half a second I smile to myself, thinking of her marching into the unit full of tirades about jumped up people who think they know best and I can almost hear Masood attempt to remind her about how the customer is always right. Not when they are idiots and I am right, I mouth to myself with a grin, before my mind kicks into gear and throws more recent memories into sharp focus. Sy is unfathomably grateful to her for every crumb of love she pushes towards him, as if he can see an alternative version of our lives where she still spits at us in the streets or something. But whether it is because I lack Sy's family loyalty or his good nature or his faith or even his residual self-doubt or all of the above, I just can't be grateful for being begrudgingly granted a minute hint of reluctant acknowledgement. It isn't enough for me to forget bitter words of hate being spat out at me or Sy's pained look of sadness when she ignored him on the street. The past is still alive and kicking around in my mind whenever I see or hear her. And now as I glance across to the house I see that look again, the look of disgust and fear that had covered her face when I was playing with Kamil, and is now followed by nervous, quick, flustered looks at her visitors, a couple standing by a car. The three of them exchange words, in a language I don't understand, in a tone that requires no translation. Questions are being asked, and no doubt lies or fobbed off replies are being given in response. I almost start to make my way over there, to ratchet up Zainab's blood pressure a bit, but then the angel on my shoulder shoves the devil off the other with whispered reminders of just how impressed Syed wouldn't be if I started yet another scene in the square with his mother.

As more figures come out of the house, Zainab's frustrated anger and the stranger's untrusting wariness is joined by Masood's unreadable blankness, Tam and Afia's apologetic awkwardness and finally two confused but pleasant-looking young kids. As Afia kisses Tam chastely on the cheek and heads into the car with the couple and younger children, I belatedly realise the cause of Zainab's increased consternation. It's meet the family time and she was wanting to impress. And so Syed was not included, I think grimly, and I wonder if he even knew. I turn away from the Vic, I don't feel like a drink any more. I start wandering back to the flat, hoping that Sy's phonecall might already be over, but I am halted in my tracks by the stumble of awkward feet and the sound of breathless gasps.

"Christian, wait." I stop and turn to see Tamwar standing behind me, scrunching up his forehead with nervous energy.

"Tam," I greet him, reaching out to pat him on the shoulder, then pulling back as I see his body freeze.

"Sorry, erm, I just wanted to apologise in person. You see Afia's family came over, well you saw obviously, and you know what mum's like, we were all up at 5 this morning to wash the curtains and hoover the sofa cushions and it's just…"

"She didn't want the inconvenient stain of the gay son to ruin her tidy and orderly plans, yeah got it," I say, with a dismissive wave of my hand.

"Oh. So Syed didn't say…" Tam trails off, his eyes frantically searching around him for any possible out.

"Tamwar." I fold my arms, step forward and block his path.

"Well, okay, you can put the muscles away. Mum said that Syed could come…"

"But only on his own, with no awkward partner to be seen or heard of, right?" I nod sagely, I really should have guessed that one.

"And Syed said no, he wasn't going to hide you away, I said that would be hard anyway because you do kind of stand out you know and then mum got really angry at us all and…well I guess you don't really need to know all of this. So, Syed didn't mention it then? Sorry, stupid question…"

I suddenly think again of the couple by the car, the almost trepidation in their eyes, the questions, the replies.

"So things are getting pretty serious between you two now then?"

"Yeah, erm sort of, I suppose."

"And do Afia's parents know? About Sy and me?"

"Um, yes. They do go to mosque you know."

Images of a crowd, of a mass of staring unfriendly eyes, of standing alone, of feeling alone, more alone and unwelcome than I think I have ever really felt before and my stomach lurches with a sudden burn of acid.

"And they don't mind?"

"I…don't think so. They are pretty liberal. I think. Erm I have to go call Afia now. About something else." And he shuffles off into the distance, hands reaching into his pocket, his body tensed even more than usual.

"I'm sorry," I mutter unheard to his retreating back. "I'm sorry." And my fading words cover a multitude of sins and faults and blessings. For the things that I need to apologise for and for those that I could never claim to repent. For falling in love with his brother, for his brother falling in love with me. For being gay and white and atheist. For breaking families and breaking hearts. For never ever being sorry about being happier than I thought was ever possible and spending my days and nights just trying to make my boy smile.

Time to go home.

I enter the flat to a hush of silence. Sy is sitting still on the sofa, holding his phone in his hand, tapping it lightly on the coffee table, his eyes flicking up to me as I shut the door.

"You spoke to him?" I ask, with a confusion of hope and fear swelling in my stomach. There is something unwelcome lurking in the depths of Syed's eyes that worries me.

"You lied," he states, his voice cracking and I struggle between wanting to take away anything that has caused him pain, guilt that the pain-causing 'anything' is yet again me, and sheer bewilderment at what I am supposed to have done. I rummage through an assortment of crimes but find nothing that fits the bill and so I merely stare in confusion at Syed's hurt face.

"What?"

"To Malik. You lied to Malik about us."

"Oh Sy." I moved over to him, sitting down next to him and taking his hand "I didn't know who he was, what he wanted, what he might do. I just didn't want you to get any more hassle."

"I hate the idea of you lying. I get why you did it. And the idea that you would do that, for my sake, to try to protect me, well it's amazing. But I wish you hadn't. One of the things I loved most about you right from the start was that you were so proud, so fiercely unapologetic and unashamed of who you were and what you wanted. I wanted to be like that, so strong and proud and brave. And that day, at Bushra's party, you had to speak out, you had to stand out, make sure that everyone knew…I thought why couldn't you just let it lie, just follow the line of least resistance. I was so angry at you for causing waves and getting involved in things you didn't understand. But at the same time I couldn't get over how strong you were, so sure and confident of yourself. I thought you were…well, incredible. That's why I kissed you, why I couldn't stop myself from doing what I had wanted to do since the first time I saw you. I just couldn't hold back, you were irresistible. You still are." He smiled slowly up at me through hooded lashes, a smile that begins at the edges of his lips, curves a path upwards through stubbled tanned cheeks and twinkles a light in his eyes before fading away, leaving darker sorrowful depths to gaze at me, teeth bitten lips to lower and sigh. "I had to lie so often. To tell outright lies, or exaggerated truths and just keep pretending all the time that you meant nothing to me, that we meant nothing to each other. And every time, it was like this stabbing feeling at the pit of my stomach, this ache, this build-up of acid burning away at me. And with every word and every step it just hurt more and more."

I watch Syed's hand circling absentmindedly over his stomach, like there is some remnant of pain still lurking there. I long to grab him, to lift his t-shirt, to press kisses of absolution onto the skin there and send beams of love shooting through to wipe out all past terrors and agonies. But I know I can't, that I can only touch the skin, that absolution and freedom within can only come from himself. Yet still the sheer power of his pain is almost impossible to watch. I knew that it was hard for him back then, of course I did. I saw it in the way he walked in the street, his body tensed as if waiting for the next blow to fall, shielding himself from the truth that he feared could be lurking round every corner. But the way he says it now, it's like before I was only staring through a dirty smeared window and now I am hit by the full glare of his hurt. I guess back then my own pain did a pretty good job of shielding me from, or maybe blinding me to, the worst of his torment, whether from selfishness or self-preservation I'm not sure. All I know is that then, like now, I had to stop myself from just doing what all I wanted to do, to pick him up and take him away, smother his wounds with long deserved love. But now, unlike then, I can at least do this little, to reach across and stroke his hair, to link my fingers into his, to give him a physical reminder of my presence. He glances up at me and flashes a quick smile of thanks, before continuing.

"But the thing is, I was kind of used to it, used to that knot in my stomach and the ball of acid that would rise in my throat when I had to make up an excuse. It felt like it had been there forever and would never go. And then that day when I left home and came here with you… Before then I had thought that 'taking a weight of your shoulders' was just a saying, but that day it felt like a literal thing, like I was about a foot taller or something. But you see, Christian, that ache, that knot, all that pain back then, I knew that that was my punishment for my failings, and that didn't make it easier or better or whatever but at least I could deal with it. But when I saw you forced to lie, because of me, when I made you lie for me…" Syed's voice trails off as he swallows hard, and he looks away, looks out of the window to see a different life, now long gone but never forgotten. I squeeze his hand sympathetically, but I can feel the same kind of knot in my own stomach, the familiar and distinct bile of deceit rising with the memory of a thousand obscured truths and fabricated pretences, dark unbelieving eyes staring across the bar with hatred burning straight through my weak attempts at evasion. When Syed speaks again, his voice is intense but quieter and I almost have to strain to hear it properly. "I hated that. The idea that I was the one who had taken the most honest, most open and proud man I knew and dragged you down into my world of lies. I never, ever want them to happen again."

I pull Syed across and into a warm embrace, letting his hair tickle the end of my nose, letting his body mould into mine, letting his scent envelop my senses. "And it won't." I promise. "It hasn't. I was just trying to be discrete, to make sure you didn't get into trouble."

A ruffle of hair shifts from under my chin and two eyes, soft with affection and shining with silent mirth, turn to meet my gaze. "Yeah, and 99 times out of a hundred, you being discrete would be a thing to be marvelled at, and I can't even begin to say enough how much it means to me that you would do that. It's just…I don't want being with me to mean you go against things that you believe in."

"You have," I respond quietly.

"No, no," Syed shook his head with fervent intent as he spoke, causing his hair to fall haphazardly into his eyes. "I haven't Christian. But I'm not going to lie again, to anyone, just to appease their own ideas of what I ought to believe." The determination in his voice has the rather disconcerting effect of reminding me that he is definitely Zainab's son, and also making the context of Tam's words staggeringly clear. He moves away from me slightly, finding a more casual smile on his face. "So, dinner?" he asks and as I nod in agreement I see a flash of relief pass over his face and we sit down at the table, near groaning with the weight of numerous dishes.

About an hour later, when I think I have eaten more than is possible or necessary or desirable for a single person to eat in one sitting, I stretch myself back on the chair in a vain attempt to allow my poor abused stomach some respite. It occurs to me, rather belatedly, that aside from the awkward topic of just how much more than friends I am with Sy, I have no idea how the conversation with Malik went. I glance over at Sy, peering over the mounds of food still separating us, and bite back a laugh at the sight of him still manfully attempting to eat what must be more than his bodyweight of curry, presumably in a bid to prove that he hadn't gone too overboard with his procrastination techniques.

"Sy?"

"Uh-huh?" he mumbles through a mouthful of daal.

"What did you actually say to Malik? Did you sort it all out?"

"Well…" he hedges and swallows down his food, "I decided to take your advice."

"Always a good start," I nod sagely. "Which specific bit of advice was that?"

"I suggested we met for coffee next Thursday and caught up. I actually feel really optimistic about it now. He didn't hang up on me or anything, he seemed happy to speak to me. I never thought I'd see him again and now I have the chance to make amends."

"That's great." I stretch a smile across my face and hope it passes muster. "Where are you meeting him?"

"I said the café by the gym, I don't know where exactly he lives so it seemed a good idea."

"So it's a date then?" I say with half-hearted jollity that rapidly falls flat, plummeting like a boulder into an empty canyon. Silence returns within our flat, the sounds of life outside filtering through the window and echoing loudly around the walls, the thundering of a tube though the tunnel sending a shudder reverberating through the glass. I reach across the table, running my thumb over his hand until he opens his palm and grasps my hand. "Sy?"

He looks up at me with unshed tears glimmering in his eyes. "It's just that word…date. And thinking about all the stuff in the past…"

"Stuff with Malik?" I ask, trying my hardest to rid my voice of sulking shadows.

"No, with you. Us. Our history. We never had dates, did we? We had stolen minutes, behind people's backs. Running down alleys and dark corners when it all got too much."

"What did you want me to come round to your parents with flowers?"

"Idiot," Syed half-heartedly rolled his eyes at me. "Surely there's somewhere between 'holding hands in the cinema' and 'having sex behind everyone's back'? You know, normal start of a relationship stuff." He squeezed my hand and smiled sadly, the smile never quite reaching his eyes. "I just want to be proud of everything to do with us and I can't. It's like all the stuff in the past, even the stuff that was amazing and loving and perfect, it feels like it is still tainted by everything else that was happening. I can't remember the good without the bad coming along too and I hate that."

"Yeah," I say, pointlessly, returning his heavyhearted smile. "I know what you mean." And my eyes fall hopelessly beyond Syed's chair, onto the sofa, the floor, the door.


"Look, just tell me what's going on."

"Maybe if you started paying attention then you'd know and not have to nag me."

"Nag you?"

Syed sighed at me and wriggled round slightly from his prone position on the sofa, head on my stomach, one of my hands playing with his hair, the other entwined with his. "It was your idea to get this film, I thought that was because you wanted to watch it."

"Well I did, but then you kept distracting me," I pouted.

"Me? I'm just lying here!" Syed exclaimed, pushing his palms into my chest and lifting himself to a more upright position.

"Exactly," I countered. "Lying there, putting that gorgeous body of yours on full display." I brushed a hand up and down his body as I spoke, watching his eyes start to widen, his teeth edge to dig into the soft plumpness of his bottom lip. "Flaunting that beautiful hair," I continued as I ran both hands through his dark brown locks, pushing it carefully behind his ears. "Showing off that tempting mouth," I murmured as my thumb made a sweeping movement over his red lips. "So I think we can both agree that it is completely your fault." I grinned, case closed, and leaned back, watching Syed shake his head at me, his mouth twitching in amusement.

I had suggested the film, I was enjoying this feel of being a 'normal couple', for the want of a better expression. As amazing as the sex was, and trust me, it was out-of-this-world good, I wanted more. I wanted to be with him all the time, to sit with him and talk, or not talk and just be. And as I had waited for that feeling to die away, it had confounded me by simply getting stronger instead, with the ticking clock of the wedding nagging on and on, a constant unwelcome and unmoveable backdrop to our fragile minutes and hours together. Part of me, the hopelessly hopeful part, that woke every morning thinking that maybe today might be the day, couldn't help thinking that the more time we spent together like this, the more impossible it would be for him to go through with it all. The other part of me just wanted to make the most of what time we did have together before our own personal movie reached its inevitable conclusion. But one glance at the glint that shone in Syed's eyes and such unpalatable thoughts quickly flew out of the window.

"Maybe I should try to help your concentration then," he began, lips twitching, fingers tracing light paths up the inside of my arms.

"Oh yeah? How's that?"

"I could get rid of my hair," he declared solemnly. "Get it all cut off and then it wouldn't be able to distract you right?"

"Oy, no. Don't you even joke about such a thing."

"Who says I'm joking? Hmm…maybe I should go for a crewcut," Syed stretched his hands up to his scalp, pushing his hair back so it was hidden beneath the palms. "Might smarten me up a bit, don't you think?"

"That's fighting talk, Syed Masood," I warned, slowly edging my hands to his hips.

"You think you're all that, Christian Clarke. Just because you have a few muscles," I raised my eyebrow and he retracted slightly with a grin, "well more than a few, perhaps. But I have hidden strengths." The grin stretched its way steadily across my face as I filled my mind with the intimate knowledge of some of those strengths.

"Put your money where your mouth is then, pretty boy."

"Pretty boy?" He pushed at my shoulder in mock horror. "That's it. Now you are definitely getting it."

"Can't wait," I laughed and we started to tussle, pushing at each other's bodies and tugging at each other's clothes. A mock wrestle that saw us giggle as much as we grappled, falling off the sofa as hands yanked at jeans and belts and shirts, breathing hampered by exertion and laughter as we rolled round on the floor. Suddenly Syed's fingers found contract with my sides, light strokes of blunt nails on my sensitive skin and I collapsed into helpless giggles, my limbs flailing as all their strength disappeared. He stopped and looked at me in surprise.

"Ticklish Christian?" he laughed.

"No," I replied. But given that I struggled to utter even this simple word due to my incessant laughter and squirming, I don't think I was completely convincing.

"Ha, how come I hadn't realised this before? Oh this is going to be fun," he murmured softly and he set about me, sitting astride, his fingers plying featherlight torment on my body while I was wrecked with near hysterical sobs of laughter.

"Say 'mercy'" he demanded, pausing for a second above me, his fingers poised millimetres above my pitiful flesh.

"Never," I insisted, with a burst of foolish pride, but as soon as he renewed his devilish contact I squirmed helplessly and conceded, crying out mercy in bleating sobs.

His grin was wide and smug and he looked almost unfathomably gorgeous as I stared up at him from my prone position on the floor. His hair was a tangled mess of curls, falling into his eyes, curling over the dishevelled collar of his untucked, half unbuttoned shirt, while his skewwhiff jeans appeared to be missing their belt. A dark red flush had embroidered itself across the tanned curves and angles on the canvas of his face while gasps for breath and the struggle for normality sent his chest heaving, stray giggles and gulps punctuating his attempts.

"So I've won then," he beamed once he had regained a semblance of composure, his smile far eclipsing the pale rays of late autumn sun that crept through the blinds.

"Yep," I conceded. "You found my weak spots," I added honestly, thinking not only of the small sensitive ticklish areas at my waist and under my ribs, nor merely of the memory of his tongue probing in the hollow of my neck or the patch just behind my ear. I watched his eyes grow darker, and softer with an understanding that he cannot, and I must not, speak of. I lowered my voice as I spoke again. "I'm at your mercy Sy. Take your reward."

I stared at him and watched the rise and fall of his chest, the smooth movement of his hand as it edged slowly up over my stomach, my chest, stroking a palm over my lips, my cheekbones and fingering my short hair before he bent down to find a pair of waiting lips seeking the taste and feel that they had longed to be reminded of. His kiss was gentle, sweet and slow, taking all the time that we didn't have to press and seek, to savour the perfect sensation, to linger in honeyed bliss. My hands found his hair and smoothed locks through my fingers, admiring the sensation of silken strands as they twisted round my skin. Time was at a standstill, clocks joining our intoxicating conspiracy and stopping in midstream to allow undisturbed worship of this perfect kiss. Hands on either side of my head, locks of hair gently falling and brushing softly against my face, tantalising touches that sent prickles of delight through my body, tickles that turned into purest pleasure.

And then. A sharp plastic intrusion into our world of ephemeral joy. A ceaseless buzz and constant vibration in Sy's pocket, harsh tinny noises that demanded immediate attention. He halted and wordlessly removed his body from mine, his hand extricating his phone and from the shadows of guilt that darkened his face I had no need to ask who it was.

"Amira!" he exclaimed with a voice of inexorable cheer and I felt the cold chill of winter arrive. "What's wrong?"

He turned away from me as he spoke, and I moved my head to try and avoid hearing his lies masquerading as truth, or was it the other way round? I felt Sy slipping away as the Syed that was somehow so familiar yet completely unrecognisable came to the fore, uttering placating words that I didn't want to listen to but couldn't help but hear, each one pushing a knife deeper and deeper into my gut.

"Okay, calm down…I'm sure she's just trying to help…yes I know how important the seating plan is…well maybe she has a…no of course I'm on your side…I'm coming over now…" And then finally the words that took the knife and twisted it, firmly, determinedly, agonisingly. "…yeah, I love you too, Princess."

Out of the corner of my eye I saw him hang up his call, and watched his careful ministrations with masochistic eyes. Buttons were fastened, creases were smoothed, jeans were straightened, hair was brushed with trembling fingers until every wayward lock was forced into muted obedience, flattened and calmed behind flushed ears. I watched as he sought to remove all signs of this, of us, of me, of him. I watched and something snapped inside. I grabbed his hand, yanking him over to me, desperate to uncover that part of him that was now hidden under respectable disguise. I kissed him fiercely and he responded in kind, an urgent uncontrollable need driving our lips and our teeth, our hands and our bodies. Lips that had promised sweetness became remorseless with ferocity, hands that had caressed with longing care turned frantic with despair, bodies that had teased with light-hearted joy and embraced with mutual tenderness found themselves wrestling with frenzied need.

He pulled away first, struggling for breath and composure, his eyes a burning mess of torment and hurt. I looked away, steadying my eyes on the less complicated images of sofa cushions that needed plumping up, DVDs that needed tidying away, cups that needed washing and drying and putting neatly back away where they belonged.

We didn't speak. There were no words to be said.

I heard him wordlessly return himself to an ordered state and felt him pause silently at the door before the definite click signalled another departure.

The next day we met again at work. There was a moment's pause, when our thoughts chimed loudly and clearly above the hiss of food simmering in pans and the clink of utensils against the cluttered work-surface, Should I say something? Will he? But then I found my face forming a smile that was rapidly responded to in kind and we began anew again, because anything else was beyond the possibilities of our heads and hearts.


I get up out of my seat and move over to Sy, pulling him up into a tight, breath-stealing hug.

"Careful, I'm really rather full. I might be sick," he mumbles half-heartedly into my neck and I release the pressure of him slightly with the edges of a smile hinting at my lips.

"Look Sy, we can't change the past, we just have to deal with it and move on," I tell him and myself.

"And make amends where we can?" he adds hopefully, pulling back to look at me with sincerity shining in his eyes and I nod.