The evidence had been stacking up like a pile of Streisand's records - the original vinyls of course. He wondered from moment to moment if he could have stopped it at some point, or if he'd been foredoomed. Was it because he'd spent too much time with his mother and not enough time picking fights with his brother? Perhaps Shakespeare was to blame. Or . . or should he have made an effort to be more messy? Was tucking his trousers into his socks so they weren't caught in the bike chain an unmanly thing to do? Was it manlier to stick out his chin and hazard a crash with his trousers tangled around the back wheel and he in his underwear by the roadside?

No. Howard dropped his head into his hands and sighed. If this were a murder trial they'd have no choice but to convict him now.

Roadside.

Malloy was such a smarmy bastard. All television, and proud of that fact. Like any other plastic personality, an expensive smile and suit to match, hair combed as if by a stylist every morni-

Wait, he hadn't been paying that much attention to Malloy. Had he?

Howard pushed himself out of the kitchen chair, cross with himself and uncomfortable with his sleeves rolled up. How could people wear shirts like this, and on a regular basis no less? He pulled one sleeve straight, dismayed at the wrinkles in it. Cursing the tape, cursing the shirt, he struggled out of the other sleeve and tossed the offending article over the back of the chair.

Pathetic. He couldn't even bear to drop it on the floor.

"Argh."

That song was still stuck in his head. If he ever survived this week, he swore he'd never listen to it again.

Ignoring the fact, of course, that he was currently humming it and drumming his fingers on the counter top.

Howard clenched his hands shut. The wedding was tomorrow. He didn't know what he was going to say to Emily. Could he marry her? How could he not? But then, how could he now?

Malloy was all television. Of course he was. All artificial.

But then how to explain the grip of hands on arms? He imagined he could still feel the imprint of fingers across each bicep, unless that was residual pain from rolling up his sleeves.

Howard shook his head, leaning heavily on the counter. Not everything could be blamed on the stupid tape.

Not least the memory of pressure on his mouth.

Which deserved thinking over for the sole reason that it was completely and utterly different from anything he'd known before. Kissing Emily was . . sunsets and long walks and talking quietly for hours. Kissing - no, being kissed by Malloy was a deprivation of oxygen and the terrifying knowledge that they were in broad daylight by the side of the road and then somehow forgetting where they were.

That span of twenty seconds was all rather hazy now. Howard may have hooked a leg around Malloy or he may not have. He couldn't remember and he could hardly go ask. But the possibility that he may have done was strange enough in itself. With Emily he always had to initiate contact, and she never pressed him beyond what he offered. Which was a relief, actually. But Malloy.

Howard supposed that if anyone was forcibly caught, held, and thoroughly kissed by someone smooth edged and foreign and sophisticated, then they too would probably be able to think of little else for some time afterward.

That was his excuse and he was sticking to it.

The doorbell rang.

Howard flinched so violently he stumbled into the chair. Not pausing to right it, he hurried to the front door. Malloy was on the step, for once without his shadow of a cameraman. Howard wrenched open the door, terrified a neighbour would wonder what Malloy was doing here the night before the wedding, and was about to ask just that when Malloy spoke first.

"Howard, I just wanted to offer my congratulations for tomorrow."

The sheer audacity of the man, to say that after the little stunt by the road - Howard grabbed an expensive shirtfront and hauled Malloy inside, fully intending to voice a tirade on the unscrupulous nature of all the press and on Malloy's personal style of being completely insufferable -

But before he could utter a sound one mouth was on another and Howard was against the wall. A picture frame dug into the space between his shoulders, but broad hands held his arms, and his fists were still bunched in a 100 pure cotton shirt and a silk/wool blend suit, and serve Malloy right if they ended up wrinkled.

It was evening, and stubble was rough on Malloy's jaw, as Howard supposed it might be on his. The hands left his bare arms and trailed up his neck, fingertips combing through his hair, and Emily had never done that without tickling. Howard obediently followed where he'd once led - open, that's right, tilt your head a little further, break - inhale - press in again and stop thinking, will you? The unfamiliar shape of thinner lips and a wider mouth, the feel of a body against his from chest to knee, the strangeness of a deep voice gasping, husky in a way that made Howard shiver -

Or was that a draught?

Sweet loving Christ was the door still open?

Howard pulled back his head, hit it against the wall, dislodged the picture frame, and pushed Malloy away from him. The other man backed off one step, two, and smiled.

Smarmy bastard.

"I should withdraw my congratulations. It seems there isn't going to be a wedding tomorrow."

Smarmy artificial television plastic bastard.

"There will be." His voice was low and rough. He cringed that one kiss should so undo him.

"Howard. That's not legal in this country."

"I'm not gay."

A long look, up and down. They both were rumpled and breathing too fast, Howard sans shirt, and he crossed his arms as he shivered and it most definitely was not a draught because Malloy had closed the door after he came in.

"Of course you're not." Gently mocking. "I'll see you tomorrow Howard. Don't be late."

He sagged against the wall.

The house was bizarrely quiet once the front door had clicked shut.