AN: The scene in the book where Ivo tells Tim he will see him in three weeks (Tim begs him to come to N. and Ivo says no but then shows up) is a whopping two pages, one of which is devoted entirely to Emily, half of the other describing Tim – "breathless" - at seeing Ivo walk up his beach. I felt an exploration of what went on in Ivo's head was in order as Tim then spends several pages telling himself that Ivo had to care for him, else why would he have cancelled his Christmas plans to come to N.?

This, then, is Ivo's story of what transpired between the night Tim wrecked Emily's car and Ivo abandoned his plans and showed up on the beach. While this rendition of Ivo seems very contradictory to the character we know and love, it is very much in keeping with his portrayal in the early days with Tim – where he appears cold and indifferent and Tim is out of his mind wondering if he's done something wrong to make Ivo this way. But then, the book characters are walking contradictions – hot and cold, here again there again. Which is what makes them so fun to play with. ;)

Contradict yourself. In order to live, you must remain broken up.

~ Wyndham Lewis

Seize the Day

It was worse than he dared acknowledge, the yearning in his belly that shattered his concentration and keept him up at night. What a fool he'd been! Allowing the boy to approach him. He should have nipped it in the bud in the elevator and set him straight then and there. It had gone entirely too far. He'd been thinking without his brain again, never a good idea. For one decade he had been blissfully free of entanglements. Ten years of phenomenal productivity – a book and more than twelve articles. Three thousand six hundred fifty two point forty-two days of detached focus, requisite for the true scholar. Sixty-seven thousand six hundred and fifty-eight point one hours of time alone to perfect his theories (he subtracted a rounded twenty thousand for time wasted in the classroom and office hours; that time wasn't worth an exact calculation. Time passed in the pub with Martin, however, was classified as 'Productivity' – invariably that man had something interesting to throw in the pot).

And now this.

Little Timothy Cornish. (he was actually taller than Ivo but Ivo considered all undergraduates lost boys, especially English majors. He snorted a little at the thought.)

He should never have let him into his bed. He shouldn't have answered the door with Martin away. He should have known it was trouble.

No one ever came to the door for him.

Except Tim Cornish.

He was flying to New York for Christmas to meet an old Oxford friend and that was that. The boy be damned – he could suffer the three week break until they saw one another again. Ivo had more important things to do. He wasn't going to start allocating precious resource hours to some English major who wanted to be a novelist. He snorted again. What was it with everyone these days wanting to write? They had nothing to say. Bloviating their secret sexual desires or lamenting their inability to write (mentally he underscored his own writing prowess over the past decade and thought even less – if that were possible – of the younger generation).

He had allowed himself four hours to get to Heathrow. Even on the train, he hated being rushed were he to miss a connection. And it was rather nice to be able to sit in the busyness of the airport and read Trollope – surely one of the great pleasures of civilized life.

Why couldn't the writing world produce more Trollopes?

He was leaving his car in Martin's garage, that man having left for Dover the week before. He'd parked it earlier that morning but now he thought he might double check to make certain he hadn't left the lights on or something stupid. A dead battery would certainly be grumpy-making upon his return. He'd have to shop for groceries as soon as he landed; he never left anything in the refrigerator when he was away. He planned a week in advance, carefully purchasing only that which would combine with the existing fare so that his last meal was entirely leftovers and the rest went to the stray cats in the alley. He hated waste, the scourge of the modern world.

He went downstairs to check the car, taking his bags with him and locking the doors. He didn't want to make a second trip upstairs. Waste of time and energy. He hated people who always duplicated their steps. Why couldn't the world be more orderly? Why was everything so inefficient?

He thought of Tim Cornish and his spontaneous ways. Waltzing into the elevator on a whim. Now there was an accident waiting to happen. The boy was like the weather –one never knew what he might do or say next. That sort of behavior was best confined to nature, it had no place in the affairs of men. What if everyone started behaving like a hurricane or volcano? Then where would society be? A bigger mess than they were already in. To add tumultuous emotion to all this greed and ambition would be anarchic.

He had placed his luggage in the boot by mistake. This was what came from thinking about undergraduates instead of his plan for the morning. His mind was wandering. Save that for moments alone in the natural world when no one was watching him.

He was alone in Martin's garage with no one watching him.

And his mind was on the last night he'd spent with Tim, that soft warm body lying on top of his. Ivo hadn't slept a wink, wanting to savor every moment of it. Well there you have it! Taking up with hot young things led to sleep-deprivation, as if he needed anything else to keep him from resting at night like all normal people.

He closed the boot without removing the luggage and stood thoughtfully for a moment. The wonderful thing about modern travel was that if one missed a connection, one could always get another flight, often not too far off the mark. Aldeburgh was an easy distance with good road. He'd have ample time to nip up there, wish the boy a happy Christmas, see if other happy things followed and still make it in plenty of time for his holiday plans. He and Jon corresponded regularly; it wasn't as if they absolutely had to spend every minute together. And he'd been in New York too many times as it was. It was a rather noisy polluted city. He didn't actually relish time spent there. Danny had liked it. It was the only reason they went so frequently. He exhaled and forbad himself to think about Danny, especially at this time of year. Some things never stopped hurting.

Aldeburgh, by happy contrast to New York City – well, he'd never seen the Suffolk coast. Perhaps there was something interesting there. One should know the geologic structure of one's entire country before venturing off elsewhere. He might find something of note there, might even be able to write his paper for Glasgow there. He could check in to a hotel and spend his leisure time meandering up and down the coastline. Tim probably knew it well. Authors liked writing about the sea, helpless romantics that they were. He'd just pop over to Suffolk and see what was what. He could make New York for New Year's if it came to that. Jon would understand. Things did come up in life. One couldn't always live according to the plan.

He opened the garage door and backed out, forgetting to lock it as he drove away. He wasn't entirely sure how to get to Suffolk but it was east and road signs would save him when he was hopelessly lost. He might have stopped for a map but that would waste time and he was eager to get to his destination. As luck had it, it was a popular vacation spot and signs did indeed come to his rescue. He had no trouble navigating the course, though he applauded himself for his cleverness at not taking more than one wrong turn. Once in the town proper, he headed directly to the shoreline and checked into the Kestrel, the largest hotel he could find. (He remembered Tim saying he didn't live far from there when the boy had mentioned it as a possibility should Ivo choose to come and visit.) He walked out to the beach before he even unpacked his bags.

He didn't have Tim's address, he suddenly realized. But it wasn't a terribly long stretch of beach and he was a terrific walker. He could probably make the full circuit before the sun set and just leave the rest to chance. He meandered first north, noting, as he always did, the variation in the pebbles. They were similar to those of other beaches he'd explored a decade ago with Danny. He watched the water instead, quiet pale brown waves trundling up to his feet, gently rolling the round rocks over, leaving them glistening in their wake. It was rather pretty but he suddenly felt sad and changed direction. The houses here were dispersed and he felt he'd gone too far from the hotel.

Southbound was exactly the same but he kept a closer eye on the houses. He was a mile from the hotel and starting to despair when he spied him. Smiling a little triumphantly he turned and climbed the slope towards him. "Not a fossil to be seen on your beach," he said when he was close enough.

"Aren't there?" Tim said somewhat breathlessly. "I've never looked."

"A very tame English beach, a pussycat of a beach." His manifest happiness softened the condemnation, so that the last syllable sounded more like a purr.

Tim just looked nonplussed.

"Right," said Ivo, as if they'd been together all day, all week, as if they'd come to Suffolk together. "Tea, then?"

Tim laughed happily as they trudged up the wet rocks back to town.