Tim sat at the window and watched, wide-eyed, as the storm battered the glass with thousands of tiny raindrops. Each one chased each other down the pane, some of them joining together to move faster and further but some straying apart to carry on alone. The soft scratch of vinyl and the beautiful notes of music could barely be heard over the raging howl and if he hadn't been listening very carefully he would not have heard his father ask about him.

"Where is Tim," came the distant request. There was a quite mumbling of a reply from his mother through the wall. Not long after his father stood in the doorway of the front room.

"How are you," he asked stiffly, unsure as ever, as to how to interact with his son.

"Fine," Tim replied.

"Good," his father said brusquely. He stood behind his kneeling son and watched the rain with him. Each in thoughtful silence as the music carried on. He gave a brief sigh and left the room in his usual slow amble. Tim pressed his fingers to the glass and watched as it misted from his breath.

"Ivo watched from the window and smiled as the rain hit the window in sheets. It created little rivers along the street and the tree just outside glistened beautifully, the weight of the water droplets causing the leaves to dance happily.

"Typical that the weekend I can visit you it rains the whole time," Isabel complained.

"It's only rain Issy, we can still go out. It's not going to melt you," Ivo replied sternly.

"I suppose," she replied sullenly, knowing better than to start an argument.

"Dad just called me," she said.

"What did he want?"

Isabel paused.

"He asked if he could talk to you. He said he hasn't heard from you in a long time. I thought you were going to go and see them," she scolded.

Ivo didn't answer.

"Ivo," Isabel stressed. "Why are you behaving like such a child? You know how much all of this is putting stress on Mum."

His only response was to light a cigarette.

"I have to go out later," he said a little while after.

"And I'll just stay here, shall I?"

"Issy," Ivo said darkly. "You don't have to be so dramatic."

She huffed before sitting on the arm of the sofa.

"Dad said you had a fight."

Ivo laughed a little but didn't look at her.

"You could say that."

"About what," she asked in her now very posh voice.

"What do you think?"

Ivo did turn to look at her then, cigarette in hand an a look of menace.

"You told him," she said slowly, surprise written all over her features.

"Yes."

"Why?"

There was a knock on the door then and Ivo strode past his sister into the hall to answer it. Isabel heard him signing for a package and he left it on the table on the hall before coming back in.

"Why shouldn't I have told him. He knows you're straight. It's only fair, don't you think," he said.

She sighed then and gave me a look.

"What did he say?"

Ivo sat next to his sister then, taking the cigarette from between his lips.

"He said I am disgusting and that he is ashamed to call me his son."

Isabel watched as her brother kept a stoic expression apart from the slight quiver of his lip. She scooted him over on the sofa so as to sit beside him and pulled him in to cuddle against her. Her heart ached when he finally gave in to his broken sobs.