He doesn't know I'm watching him. He's far too absorbed in what he is doing. Eyes closed and lips parted, his breath coming out in little sighs. I can hear him moan just a little as he runs the fabric through his fingers. Unconsciously I can feel it against my own fingers; the coarse fibers and the rough texture of the scratchy wool. I imagine the scent of it too when he presses it against his lips, breathing the smell in. He visibly relaxes and one hand gently lets go of the scarf to trail down towards the zipper on his jeans. He pushes them down around his thighs and smiles, oblivious to my presence.

I'm horrified and intrigued in equal measure and I can't look away as he touches himself with a look of pleasure on his fine features. His nose scrunches up as he concentrates on his ministrations and I'm sickened that I can feel my own arousal as I watch him. Purely because he is acting so sexual not because of anything else.

There is something so odd about standing in the hallway on my way from the bathroom as I watch him. In all the things I imagine to go on in Tim's head this was something that never occurred to me. He'd been hesitant on the occasions I had asked him if he had any fantasies and now I understand why. I step away from the doorway and tread as silently as I can to the living room, my heart thudding and my head spinning.

I reflect on his reaction to the time when I had found the scarf hidden away behind the cupboard and it now makes sense to me. They say that for relationships to be healthy the couple have to be open and honest with each other but I think this is something I would rather not know. I wonder what other things he keeps to himself; what twisted and dark things wreak havoc in his mind.

I find myself walking around my living room picking things up and putting them down again. I can't deal with this. He's been seeing that therapist for god knows how long and clearly he's done fuck all. Patient confidentiality my arse. He was hardly going to tell me about this. I am a logical man and the most logical option is to tell Tim that I know. To sit down and calmly talk about it with him, find out how he feels about it but I can't imagine being able to bring it up never mind not get angry about it. Oh God, this is so sick. He's having fantasies about-. I don't even want to think about it. Before I can stop myself I have stormed back towards the bedroom and startled him. He jumps about a mile and is instantly still when he looks at me. He is wise enough to look embarrassed. Mortified, actually.

Am I angry? I'm shaking so I must be.

He doesn't even move to take his hand from his underwear. He just stares at me in open-mouthed shock.

"What are you doing," I hiss. My heart is pounding and I can feel a twitch in my abdominal muscles. He doesn't reply but there is a deep red tinge to his normally alabaster skin. He casts his eyes down. Of course he does. He always is a coward when he gets caught doing things he isn't supposed to. But that's usually when he moves things in my office or breaks something. This is-. I don't even know how to verbalise it.

"No, you look at me right now," I command. Even I would be a little afraid of me right now. He looks at me and his shoulders hunch as he licks his lips nervously.

"What are you doing," I ask him again and I nod towards the scarf in his lap.

"I..."

He doesn't say anything else. He's looking at the scarf like he can't quite register himself what he was doing.

"That turns you on, doesn't it," I say quietly. I want to yell at him but I feel like I'm dealing with a small child.

He nods slightly and I can see that he is ashamed.

"Do you not see how messed up that is?"

It comes out sounding more curious than I thought it would. Does he not care or can he really not see it?

There is a 'ding' sound from the kitchen as our reheated dinner finishes warming and Tim flinches at the sound.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles.

"Why are you sorry?"

After I ask it I know he will take it to be a test, for him to work out what he has done wrong before he can apologise. But I am genuinely curious as to why he is apologising to me. His mouth opens and closes as he tries to form a response. I move to sit down next to him on the bed and his big eyes look into mine.

"Why does it turn you on," I say. I'm trying to be rational. Rational is the best way. His eyebrows twitch towards a frowning motion. He is confused. He shrugs his shoulders in that youthful way he has and he looks away again as he pulls the jeans up around his hips again, the scarf laying beside him on the bed.

Mostly around Tim I feel young again. He makes me think that I have the chance for a youthful happiness that I denied myself for so long. Right now I feel so much older though. Like I have so much responsibility to care for him because he doesn't seem to understand himself. Is this normal? I don't exactly know a lot of twenty something, reluctantly gay men who have been victims of abuse and neglect. Maybe this is a common thing, a normal reaction to abnormal events.

I take a moment to gather my thoughts and he doesn't offer anything into the silence. Reaching over him, I lift the scarf and in my peripheral vision I can see the look of alarm on his face. It's that flinch he does when he thinks I am going to hurt him. That pains me more than anything else about this. I'm evidence of that fantasy; wanting things that hurt you. That's why he stays.

"Ivo," he says shyly as I look at him, the scarf draping across his legs and across my forearm as I examine it. Am I really going to do this? Would I be making it better or worse? I'm not a professional. I don't know how to handle this but I understand Tim enough to know that he needs someone who will try and understand even the more complex parts of him. This is terrifying but I try to seem like I know what I am doing.

I look into his eyes and try to discern from them what he is feeling. They widen and watch me frantically as I lift the scarf , folding it length ways to make it the right size and hold it up across his face before reaching around the back and tying it. His muscles seize up and he gasps as I obscure his vision. The thought of how this scarf most likely has not been washed repulses me a little. I don't even dare ask if this is what they used to do to him. Oh God, don't think about it.

"Ivo," he says, panic in his voice.

I smooth my hand along his thigh as I cup his chin and kiss him gently. He tastes like coffee. Something about this seems so perverse but something else tells me this is exactly what he needs. It's like a fantasy, right? It's not real. Once he acts it out it won't be so bad. It's with me, someone he trusts and who doesn't want to hurt him. That's what it should be. He just needs to get it out of his system.

His breathing is so erratic it sounds like he is hyperventilating. I gently guide him down to lay on the bed, his legs still dangle over the edge, long enough that his toes grace the floor. I get a firm grasp on his waist and pull him up so that he lies fully on the bed and then I shimmy the jeans down his legs to his ankles. He pulls his feet free and I give him an open-mouthed kiss. He is panting now and his chest moves up and down quickly.

His hands rest either side of his head and they clench as I run my hand along his stomach, pulling his t-shirt up and moving my fingers along his chest. I feel his ribs contract and expand and it sounds like he is muttering to himself. I push against his side to encourage him to roll over and when he does his fingers grip the sheets so hard I fear he may tear through them.

"Please," he says quietly in one shuddering breath.

I can't believe I'm doing this as I find what I need from the beside cabinet. Is he imagining himself being younger? Am I about to have sex with a child right now? It's dark outside and the wind shakes the tree just outside the window which casts odd shadows on our dimly lit room. I lean down to place a kiss on the nape of his neck and he visibly tenses.

"Hhngh, Ivo," he whines and reaches back to touch me. I breathe a sigh of relief. I was expecting him to call me James.

"I'm here," I whisper into his ear as I pull his underwear down. He writhes and moves wantonly as I prepare him. I'm so worried about hurting him, physically and psychologically that I go as slowly as possible. I hope I'm doing the right thing. He lays with his cheek pressed to the mattress, his lips parted and his hands trying to find purchase in his fantasy world. I grasp the back of his neck and place my other hand on his hip bone as I press into him.

The moan he lets out sends a shiver through me, although I can't tell if it is a chill. This feeling is something I'll never get used to. I'm lost in my own fantasy now too and I relish the sounds he makes as I make love to him. If this isn't love then I don't know what is. I'm so conflicted. This is my beautiful Tim but it feels wrong knowing that right now he is somewhere else, imagining someone else. I wonder how long he has been thinking about this and if this will be the end of it. Somehow I doubt it. Oh God that feels good. Fuck this is so wrong. He climaxes sooner than I expect and once I am finished I pull out and stay as still as possible, assessing the situation. His breathing is laboured and he is shaking. I kiss his cheek and stroke his hair before untying the scarf.

He sits up after I move off him but he doesn't look at me. He rests back on his knees and has a limp grasp on the scarf as he looks out the window. I run my hand along his back in a soothing gesture and I can tell that he is crying.

"Why did you do that," he asks me, his head turning slightly to look at me.

There is a moment that passes between us before I answer.

"Because I love you."

He takes in what I say and then nods slightly.

"You must think, I'm pretty sick."

He says it so pitifully with a gasping breath inbetween. I walk on my knees on the bed to be behind him and I pull him towards me to hug him from behind.

"I'm not sure I understand it, but if it's what you need-"

His hands come up to rest on mine across his stomach.

"Thank you."

I lean in to kiss below his ear.

"Is it a recent thing," I ask him warily. He shakes his head to indicate it is not.

Oh God.

"It's okay," I assure him and I give him a squeeze. "It's okay."

This is such an intimate way to know someone and I can't imagine being this way with anyone but him. I want to protect him, help him and love him and I can't take that lightly. If this is what that means then I need to find a way to deal with it. Our eyes meet in the reflection of the window against the night. He looks away from me but I reach around to tilt his head up.

"Don't be ashamed, Tim. Please."

He gives me a hint of a smile. He is so beautiful. I kiss his shoulder softly and he leans back into my touch.

"You want to go eat," I ask him. It's muffled against his skin. He sighs happily.

"Mmhmm."

He reaches over to pull his jeans on and I zip up my own trousers. I smile when I feel him take my hand and we walk into the kitchen together. He gives my hand a squeeze and rests his head on my shoulder.

"I love you so much, Ivo," he says it with such severity that it seems to pain him. He allows me to pull my hand away in order to restart the microwave. Tim ambles over to the little table and sits down, folding his arms on the counter and placing his chin on them. His eyes look so bright in this light.

It doesn't take long for me to serve up the food and we eat in a beautiful silence, him playing footsie with me under the table the whole time. There are so many questions racing around in my mind but I can't bring myself to ask him any of them. I still can't make the queasy feeling go away at the thought of why the scarf turns him on. I put it down to it being his first sexual experience.

He cuddles me as I wash the dishes and I'm unsure how to feel about Tim sticking to me like a human starfish.

"Will you read to me, Ivo," he asks me. I smile. I had a feeling he would ask me that sooner or later. It seems to be one of the few things that truly relaxes him. I nod as I throw the dishtowel back into the rail. He follows me into the living room and entwines himself around me after I sit. We're so domestic like this. I wrap my arm around him and he cuddles in close, handing me a very worn copy of Wuthering Heights. I open it at a random page. It never seems to matter to him where I start from. In no time I can hear the change in his breathing as he succumbs to sleep and I stay awake a while to stroke his hair. Around eleven I flick the switch of the lamp next to us and we lay in the orange glow of the street-lamp.

I close my eyes and cuddle my love to me.