"Ivo, my dear boy. You look frightful."

The sight of him in my office at this time of the evening was nothing new, he had adopted it as his own as his habitual thinking ground. It seemed that I had intruded on one of the many times when he was buried deep in his own mind, cogs whirring and thoughts spinning like a ferocious storm.

He gave a dry acknowledgement of my presence and continued to vacantly stare at the wall, a cigarette clasped between his index and middle fingers.

"What is the matter," I asked soothingly and took the seat at the other side of the desk, the one my students always shuffled their feet in while I delivered the necessary criticism. He gave me a look. One that told me what I needed to know.

"Ah," I nodded briefly. "And how is young Mr Cornish."

I was loathe to ask. Each time he would regale me with the tales of their turbulent relationship I found myself at a strange level of unease. I disliked the harsh resonance that Ivo spoke with and I found myself jumping to defend the young boy from Ivo's sharp tongue. Something that was unappreciated by the speaker.

I anticipated Ivo was ready to launch into the latest account of Tim's stupidity, selfishness, neediness and so many other themes to the same likeness. I could very nearly predict the monthly schedule of Tim's misgivings and the pompous way in which Ivo would inform me that he was saving the boy, reforming him.

I hated to admit that the boy whom I had favoured all that time ago was very different to the one I now knew. I believed that I had had some influence on his bravado, his confidence and his prevalent charms. I thought I had mentored him, but Ivo had bested me and I disliked it. I had attempted on many occasions to ignite some sort of fire in that boy and he resisted for so long before finally, finally he emerged from the ashes.

I believed that now Ivo was slowly being consumed by the flames each time he reached out to control it. I did not want to confess to myself that there was undeniable jealousy for the way Tim seemed to gravitate towards Ivo. He was drifting before he met him and now was like a moth to a flame.

I recalled one evening in particular when he had sat in my office, trying to find an idea for his next assignment and coming up with nothing. He had talked aloud, sometimes with a hint of animation at any part of the writing that may involve something romantic. I was captivated by the delicate grace with which he expressed himself. His eyes even closed softly at moments when he was particularly swathed in his own dreaming.

He was an astonishingly beautiful young man. Handsome only because it was evident that he did not believe it. I had feigned tiredness in order to continue the meeting the next day for fear that I would blurt out something inappropriate and regrettable.

I awaited Ivo's speech patiently. But there wasn't one. Instead he he broke down into tears causing me a moment of alarm. I had never been witness to anything other than Ivo's cold expressions of friendship and excited curiosity about his work. After a few seconds of his anguish he quickly pulled himself together enough to speak.

"I've been such an idiot," he moaned. I didn't even have to question him before he continued. Rare.

"I'm supposed to protect him and instead I keep hurting him like they did," he looked up at me, looking to all the world like a man gone mad.

"That's the only reason he's with me Martin. Because he'll keep coming back to the one's who hurt him. I was so stupid not to see it," he whispered to himself, wide eyed. "At the restaurant," he said coldly. "He wasn't upset to see him again, he was upset he had a wife. I thought it was because he felt used and unloved but it wasn't that at all."

He barked out a harsh laugh at me and I stood there, transfixed by this new version of Ivo. One that seemed to have stepped from the pages of a book. Maybe one written by Mr Cornish. This was suitably dramatic.

"So what do I do Martin," he asked sadistically. "Hurt him to keep him? If I don't he'll go searching for someone who will."

He took a long drag on the cigarette and then gave a slight smile.

"Last night," he paused. "I punished him for having annoyed me. He just accepted it," he shrugged and tapped ash into the little ceramic tray.

I wanted to leave and not listen to this.

"I liked it," he hissed with venom. "I actually liked it like some sick bastard, the fact that he stayed there. He was obeying me and I couldn't get enough of it." His breathing began to quicken. "I tell him what to do and he does it, desperate to please." His eyes began to water again.

"When he was half conscious he thought I was him and then I realised what I was doing." He looked down at the table and shook his head.

"Who," I found myself asking without wanting to know the answer. I hadn't expected an answer, I thought he would have refused to taint the relationship between student and teacher but then again, I supposed he was trusting me with this. I wished he wouldn't.

"He was abused as a child," he replied. His head tilting at me in curiosity to see my reaction. "Except he doesn't think he was," he laughed. "In school, some of the older boys abused him, raped him. He made himself think it was what he wanted. There was one in particular. He's married now," he shrugged. "We ran into him and his wife when we were out to dinner and I punched him."

He took another drag of the cigarette, examining it between his fingers and resting forwards with his hand to his head.

"And now he's with me. And I shout at him and tell him what to do. Convince him that I'm what he wants and needs. I tell him that he doesn't know what he wants and that I can help him understand when all I do is confuse him more. They were all perverted little shits for what they did to him and here I am doing the same."

There was a long silence before he blurted out in a short laugh.

"I even raped him Martin. Never told you that, did I? When he wanted to leave me, on that cruise," he hissed angrily. "He asked if we could cool off for a bit, keep out hands off each other and I didn't want to. So I forced him to. He even apologised to me for it, saying that he shouldn't have avoided me." He shook his head sadly. "So what words of wisdom do you have for me Martin?"

I simply stared at him, dumbfounded and unable to tear my eyes from his steely gaze. I thought of the sweet little boy who usually sat where I sat now, always with a delicate smile for me and a thank you for my help. Sometimes an apology for shoddy work and often a cheeky grin.

"Cat got your tongue," he asked suddenly and I frowned trying to carefully choose my words to not show the horrors I wanted to inflict upon him.

"It's quite a bit to take in Ivo. You've just told me something tragic about a young boy I care deeply for. Please excuse me for not viewing your instability as my first priority."

I stood from the chair and went to the door.

"Goodnight Ivo."

Even as I left, his words followed me.