"To me it felt like finding something that had been left in the sun for too long. Or when you finally walk into a room after years of saying nothing and you think, 'my goodness, that wallpaper is very faded'. There are some things, like books or wallpaper or clothes that after a long time in the sun will have faded or lost their colouring. But there are then other things such as flowers or gems that thrive in the light, growing or dazzling respectively. How do you know which category you fit into? When we finally find ourselves cast upon, is it something that will allow us to grow or will we fade like all the others?"

-A Refinement of Before-

I feel like I have just had one of the longest phone calls of my entire existence. There is a vague memory somewhere in my mind of relativity and I have a fleeting moment of panic at not remembering it. Lately I have been reading up on just about everything and anything because admittedly I do like to have the upper hand on Tim that way.

Intelligence is one of the few weapons in my arsenal for keeping him at my side. I can play him like a violin at times and leave him begging me for further pearls of wisdom that he in his misspent youth is in desperate hunger for. He is always asking my advice with his writing. Not that he needs it but I am always sure to add just a hint of criticism to ensure he will keep coming back to me. It is cruel, I know but having just celebrated my thirty seventh birthday I am a desperate man.

The call was a long distance one to Canada. Vancouver, specifically. She was brazen enough to reverse the charges which made the call seem all the much longer on my end because I was paying through the nose for the privilege of being scolded. Of all things about money.

Did Tim have a job, she asked boldly. Was he paying rent, did he help with bills at least?! Solicitor's fees? I am paying his solicitor fees? How could I be so foolish. Don't I know that as soon as any money left the equation so too would Tim?

At times I wish I were less rational in order to shout at her via phone but I can see how much damage has already been caused and I don't believe the ends will justify the means. She is still hurt, still jealous and still very much hateful of Tim. At times I wonder if she hates me too but I doubt it.

Tim clatters through the door with the shopping and I smile to myself. I've missed him today. I worry when I don't have him in front of me. He is such a delicate and volatile thing that I don't really trust anyone else not to damage him in some way. He ambles in to the back room with a twenty something year old's walk. His smiles is radiant but quickly turns into something more carnal, more persuasive.

"Did you miss me," he asks coquettishly. I laugh inwardly when he sways his hips on his way to the kitchen. He gives me a sultry glance when he sees that I have followed him there. Only he could create something sensual about putting salt in the cupboard.

My thoughts kick into overdrive as I imagine all the dirty and depraved things I would like to do to him and I think this must be quite a masculine thing. Tim has sexual desires of course, but nowhere near the profane things that I am thinking. The things that in my youth I came to believe as normal homosexual practice from experiences in clubs and random pickups. I wonder if I shall ever tell Tim the extent of them.

At present, I am struck by the overwhelming thought of Tim and I in a nightclub somewhere. Better yet, being asked to leave the establishment for illicit activities. Something about that seems very appealing. I'm sure a few drinks in I could persuade him. Thinking about him in a pair of baggy jeans and my hands on him as we moved to loud and demanding music. I quite like the idea of Tim's dancing. He would be awkward at first but he is a quick study and he would of course be watching everyone else, trying to figure it all out. Trying so hard to please.

"Ivo?"

I jump at the sound of my name and look at him. He is crinkled up with laughter.

"You're drooling," he laughs and embarrassed I wipe at my mouth to find that I had in fact been salivating at the notion.

"What are you doing tonight," I ask him as I help him unpack.

"Mmm, maybe watch some TV," he suggests and I note that when I ask what 'he' is doing, he takes it to be what 'we' are doing.

"Let's go dancing," I say.

He gives me a look and continues unpacking. A minute later he looks at me again.

"Wait, are you serious?"

"Very."

Stepping towards him, I wrap my arms around his waist and pull him towards me. I lean up slightly to kiss the nape of his neck, resenting that he is taller than me. He tilts his head back meaning he likes it even though it is counter intuitive to the notion of me having access to his neck. I nibble his ear as my hands fumble with the button on his trousers. I hate this kind on him. The fancy and formal ones he wears to the publisher's office. I want that rough feel of half torn denim in my hands that makes me think about just how young he is.

"Bedroom," he says coyly.

"Fuck it," I respond, halfway to the point of not being able to form coherent sentences. God he turns me on so much. He gasps when I pull his trousers down to his ankles.

"You'll ruin them," he says with annoyance.

"I'll buy you new ones."