Christian had stopped getting dressed in the mornings. Awake early, he spent the mornings lolling around in his blue towelling robe, drinking coffee, reading magazines. He'd finally been to the doctor who'd signed him off work and prescribed him with tablets he was refusing to take.

"What are the tablets gonna do?" he'd asked. "Are they going make what happened disappear? Nothing can do that. I just need some time, that's all."

The problem was, Syed didn't know how much time Christian was going to need. Work at the Unit was piling up – a testament to the success of Masala Queen – but also an indication of how reliant on each other they all were. Zainab was getting increasingly tetchy, in Pakistan, she reminded Syed, people didn't take time off work because of stress. They gritted their teeth and got on with it. But what plagued Syed's thoughts was the look in Christian's eyes – or rather, the look that had gone out of Christian's eyes. The familiar, taunting sparkle had gone – and now Christian's eyes seemed flat and lifeless.

Syed spent as much time as he could with Christian in the tiny flat, making excuses to leave the Unit during the day, or inventing needless shopping expeditions, relishing the moments when he could pound on the blue front door, glancing over his shoulder in case anyone was watching. Sometimes he would tell his mother where he was going, knowing that she could hardly disapprove as he was conforming to her own high standards of friendship. Once the door was closed behind him it was as if he was entering a different life, a life that no-one else knew about, except for the bruised, hurt man standing before him.

They spent many hours together, lying against each other on the sofa or the bed, often in silence, hands tightly clasped, replicating the comfort in each other's presence that they had come to relish in the Unit. Sometimes they spoke -random conversations about childhood memories, or recounting snippets of long remembered, overheard conversations, or imagining the lives of the family thumping around in the flat above. They rarely listened to music, or watched TV – instead, their silence carried the words they didn't need to say, their clasped hands reluctant to prise apart when Syed finally glanced at the clock, knowing he had to go.

Sex was rarely on the agenda. Christian was still sore from the beating, but Syed knew that that wouldn't have stopped him if sex was all he wanted. Christian was often moody and distant, snapping at any suggestion he might venture outside. At other times he retreated into himself, staring down at his fingers and twisting the thick silver ring on his finger round and round. Syed suspected he was reliving not just the most recent attack, but the one that had happened previously. Syed had experienced his share of racism in London, he'd had abuse shouted at him and been threatened on the street, but he'd never been attacked in his own home.

For both of them, the long afternoons spent curled up within the four walls of Christian's flat, behind the barrier of the blue front door, were about more than mere physical gratification. It was companionship, friendship, partnership. Syed didn't want to go further than that. He still loved Amira – or at least, he thought he did. But as the silence with Christian deepened as the weeks went by Amira's twittering, her increasing demands, her coquettish looks and coy smiles began to grate on him. Compared with the silent, often despondent man lying next to him on the sofa, Amira seemed shallow and fickle. She didn't know what it was to live an independent life, Syed thought resentfully, to have to rely on her own resources, to fend for herself, financially, practically and emotionally. Whereas the man stretched out beside him, eyes closed but not sleeping – Christian never seemed to sleep – asked for very little, except for the odd bag of sugar from the shop.

Sometimes, they talked about Amira. Christian said he could understand, said that he'd nearly married once, said that he knew what it was to love a woman, if not to be in love with one.

"I love Rox – I mean, she's a pain in the neck sometimes, but I still love her, yeah? I'll always be there for her, even if she does drivel on sometimes."

"Amira's not like Roxy, Christian. Amira, well, she's beautiful, and classy and grace…"

"Oi! Watch out what you're saying about Roxy, Sy. She's my mate."

"I know Christian, and Roxy's great. But that's the point. She's your mate. Amira, she's.. well, she's destined for me. We're expected to be together. Everyone expects it: my family, her family – well, at least, they would if they were around - our community. We're well matched. We're compatible."

"You're compatible? You make yourself sound like computer programmes. You don't love her, Sy."

"Christian, you have no idea how I feel about Amira."

"No? So what are we doing lying in my bed together then?"

"It's more complicated than that. Amira, she understands things. She knows what's expected. What we have to do, how to behave. She knows what her role will be, and what she can expect of me. We're good together like that, we understand each other."

"No, Sy, you understand each other's background. You understand each other's culture. But she doesn't understand you really, not in here". Christian pressed his hand against Syed's heart and the two of them fell silent, feeling it thumping hard against the palm of Christian's hand.

"She tries, Christian. And nothing's perfect. We'd be happy together. Even my mother agrees to that."

"This is perfect, Sy. You and me. A rainy afternoon, curled up under a big duvet. Feeling the beating of your heart. We don't need to understand each other's background. We don't even need to talk half the time. We just are. Haven't you noticed?"

Syed turned his head away. Christian's hand reached up and gently turned his face so they were looking into each others' eyes.

"You've noticed. I know you have. You may not want to admit it, but you know as well as I do. This isn't about being well-matched, or having compatible backgrounds. This is just about you and me."

"Christian… I… " Syed buried his face in Christian's shoulder and the older man's arms came round him.

"OK, Ok. You don't need to say it. I know."

*********************************************************************

"I think you're Superman."

God, what a stupid thing for him to say. But Syed couldn't keep the smile out of his voice or stop his lips from twitching at the corners. In the early days, he'd often glanced at Christian's sculpted body, reminding him of the superhero he'd watched on TV as an adolescent. Syed had pretended to have a crush on the actress playing Lois Lane, while really gazing at the actor, whose muscular body seemed more appealing and enticing than his alter ego's ability to fly. And now, he'd called Christian superman.

Christian had just run his fingers down the side of Syed's cheek and thanked him for all he'd done. Syed had blurted out his offer to spend the night if Christian would go out by himself – embarrassed both at his own gaucheness and Christian's gratitude. And Christian had turned his head away, as if he didn't want to be rewarded with sex, as if the physical act wasn't enough for the effort stepping outside the door would take. So Syed had clarified his offer: "The whole night."

And Christian had responded, making the two of them sound like teenagers sneaking around behind the adults' back. "Are you sure? Tonight?" Syed had nodded, smiling into Christian's eyes, already calculating what he'd say to his mother and to Amira. It would be possible to wing it, he thought, he'd just mention a friend from Uni and no-one would be any the wiser. He'd call him Chris – that would make it barely a lie at all. He'd turned his head towards the door then, partly to hide the tears welling up at Christian's need. He knew Christian would take up the challenge to go outside, but even if he hadn't he would have spent the whole night anyway.