Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

I like our new house. I mean, I really like it. I’d even go so far as to say I love it – and which admittedly this isn’t a depth of feeling I’d ever have imagined summoning about a house, but quickly grows more understandable once I remember I’ve never owned a house with you before (and is therefore no longer a matter of being a house, as opposed to our house). Because it is, isn’t it? We own it together. It belongs to us. It’s the house that we viewed together, chose together, then moved into together. And perhaps most significantly of all, it’s the house where we finally stopped being only partners together and turned ourselves into a married couple instead.

In this respect it’s been over half a year since the wedding, yet the reality of being married (literally, actually married) is still enough to make me break into grins of confused delight whenever the thought occurs to me. It’s like I can’t quite fully believe we achieved it, even though I know that we did. I was there, after all. So were you. We read our vows, exchanged the rings, and signed the cetificato di matrimonio with the same pen passed from my hand to yours. We did everything we were supposed to do, yet somehow it still feels like I need to pinch myself to confirm that not only were we able to pull it off but that the ceremony itself was memorable for the simple and surprising reason of how incredibly uneventful it was. To be honest I’m not even sure what I was really expecting, only that I was convinced something would go terribly wrong. It seemed as if feeling this joyful would turn out to be a form of jinx or tempting fate, because surely the Universe would end up conspiring in some way to deny us our happy ending? After all, we’d been responsible for so much carnage and chaos over the years. Perhaps the only thing to offset such an enormous moral debt was the damage we’d done to ourselves along the way, although even that hardly seemed sufficient punishment to earn a lasting form of forgiveness. We didn’t deserve to be happy, and it was as if the better things were the more cynical I became, to the extent I almost felt embarrassed to admit it to you. It seemed like such a childish way of viewing the world: irrational, even, as if I thought there was some celestial set of scales that would be weighing up all our various misdeeds in a cosmic balance sheet before deciding that we’d had it a bit too good for a bit too long.

After several weeks of this it was obvious I’d never be able to reason myself out of it, so in the end I simply coped with the pessimism through distraction instead; namely by flinging all my attention into wedding preparation with the same grim determination of someone flinging themselves off a cliff. You looked amused when I told you that (‘Not the best choice of analogy, beloved’) but regardless of its metaphorical quality the strategy itself still felt pretty sound; not least because worrying about paperwork and venue bookings was infinitely preferable to torturing myself with images of the FBI busting in to arrest us halfway through. Although even this only turned out to be partly successful because the paperwork was so tedious and painstaking – and ultimately provided a fresh source of angst once I grew convinced the amount of forgery and false names involved would render it legally meaningless, so what was even the point?

‘I mean, we don’t actually have citizenship,’ I’d protested; at which point you’d smirked slightly then glanced at the neat stack of papers on the desk. ‘I mean actual citizenship,’ I’d added, ‘the non-fake kind’, but you still didn’t seem to care. As far as you were concerned the legality was a secondary consideration; what mattered more was the symbolism it represented between ourselves. I think you might have even cherished a fantasy of us simply re-marrying each other over and over again every time we move to a new country, and the more I thought about it the easier it was to start sharing the same point of view. If anything, it actually seemed quite appropriate: a liminal space, far beyond the rules and regulations of the everyday world, where nothing could ever be as real or meaningful as what was happening in the moment between the two of us.

After that I started to calm down a bit and began spending more time simply relaxing with you, slowly absorbing your calm sense of certainty through osmosis like a plant absorbing sunlight. I even abandoned the form-filling by deciding my next task should be to buy you a wedding ring instead – although admittedly even that ended up as bit of a self-inflicted nightmare, because I was determined to find you something equally thoughtful and unusual as yours was for me (and which I suppose was a fairly admirable goal but was severely hampered by not having the first fucking clue where to start). Another thing that felt important was using my own money to buy it rather than yours, and after puzzling over it for a few more days I’d finally resorted to selling my entire collection of Locard first editions in exchange for a glamorous silver band that was rather weighty and Nordic-looking with a raised edge and gracefully curving inlay. Somehow it didn’t feel like enough by itself though, so I’d ultimately gone even further and paid for a neat line of gemstones to be inserted on the interior so that they’d always be touching your skin: bloodstone, emerald, larimar, onyx, verdelite, emerald and a diamond to finish. I knew you’d enjoy decoding the acrostic, and the expression on your face once you figured out it spelt beloved made every second of the stress and hassle obtaining it dissolve away in the blink of an eye. I’ll never forget the way you looked then; it made me feel that I wanted to find ways of making you look like that every day for the rest of your life.

Because I was still keen on getting married as quickly and quietly as possible, I carried on pushing you for a small civil ceremony; something simple and stressless with minimal hassle, where we could pretty much just rock up to sign a few forms before an obliging official would pronounce us marito e marito. Admittedly you weren’t as sold as me on the quiet aspect but the quick part definitely appealed, and in the end we did it at a tiny Town Hall just outside Milan with only registrars to act as witnesses and absolutely no responsibilities to organise beyond whatever applied to ourselves. I remember being intensely nervous beforehand, despite the fact I was the one who’d been married before so technically should have taken things more in my stride. You, on the other hand, weren’t nervous exactly as opposed to intensely possessive and occasionally rather…what? Actually, I don’t know; I’m not sure what the right word would be to describe it. Surprised, maybe? I suppose that might come close to it. In a way you’d already admitted as much to me beforehand: how in the past you’d never imagined yourself in a situation like this, not because you couldn’t marry someone if you wanted (obviously) but simply because you didn’t think you’d choose to. I guess the thought of marriage felt too conventional for you – too close to the type of dull, predictable rituals that normal people enjoy – but also because you never thought you’d meet anyone you’d even consider wanting to spend the rest of your life with. You were always surrounded by people, you said, yet until you’d met me were still essentially alone; a life of splendidly solitary confinement which you’d always assumed was exactly what you wanted. You’d smiled then, catching my eye for a few moments of fond silence before slowly running a finger down my cheek. It’s rather extraordinary, isn’t it? your expression was saying. Just look at what you’ve done to me.

As it turned out, the ceremony itself managed to be simple and speedy enough to satisfy even my expectations for it, although it’s fair to say our first married kiss was pretty much anything but. I know I’ll always remember it: you just did it with such incredible care and thoroughness, cupping my face in your hand to begin with – gazing into my eyes while gently stroking my jaw with your thumb – until finally moving your lips down to press against mine (and then proceeding to keep them there so long that the registrar was politely clearing his throat at us in an obvious request to stop making out in front of him and go get a goddamn room). To be honest my nerves were still gnawing away for most of it, but afterwards I was so happy I could barely speak. I was just stood there, clinging onto your hand until I ended up dragging you round like a dog on a lead because I wasn’t prepared to let go of you for even for the time it would take to sign the register. I remember almost having a cackling fit at that point once I realised this now made you my civil partner, as well as sexual partner and partner-in-crime, because it seemed like such an excessive amount of partnership for one person (and how that was so typical of you, because you always over-do everything). It was like being drunk on sheer joyfulness, and from the way you kept smiling it was obvious you were incapable of containing yourself any better than I was. We were like a pair of children who were dizzily impulsive with our own sense of success; constantly catching each other’s eye then grinning as if to say Look what we’ve managed to do.

In that respect the wedding itself felt like enough – it was more than enough – with anything beyond that seeming excess to requirement. I wasn’t even bothered about having a honeymoon (being far keener to spend some time in our own house first) but while you’d been very patient with indulging my urge for simplicity, even you must have felt like this was a step too far. As such I left the Town Hall expecting to drive straight home again, and instead discovered a sleek Rolls Royce waiting out front for us with a uniformed chauffeur behind the wheel. You wouldn’t tell me where we were going, and I remember this mounting sense of gleeful excitement each time I peered out the window until a couple of hours had passed and I finally saw the road signs for Venice. I started grinning like an idiot then, because it was somehow so perfect while also being completely unexpected. An obscurer choice would have been more typical for you – a hidden village of breath-taking beauty filled with winding Medieval streets, incredible food, and virtually not a tourist in sight – and I loved how you hadn’t even pretended to keep your cool about it and blatantly opted for one of the most romantic cities in the world instead. It was already easy to picture what our time there might entail, the images so clichéd and vivid they could have been plucked straight from a 1950s movie: sipping champagne by moonlight, lying hand-in-hand in a gondola, or feeding each other spoonsful of gelato from frosted glasses before strolling over the Bridge of Sighs. Intensely, unabashedly romantic activities that not long ago I would have cringed at, yet currently couldn’t get enough of simply because they would be done with you. It was startling to realise that this was the sort of life I had now; something so thrillingly intimate and almost close to outright fantasy in how opulent and exotic it was. But then of course the opposite was also true, because I could clearly remember the dispossession I’d spent so long toiling under when we were still in Florence: that restless, lonely energy which left me feeling so utterly alienated from everyone around me. Now I could look at the crowds encircling us and realise that I no longer cared. It was like the whole city was nothing more than a throng of dull, blind, mechanical people and we were the only ones who were truly alive: two hunters prowling through a herd of prey.

The hotel you’d chosen was luxurious enough to even make the one in Florence blush, complete with a staggering view of the skyline and a suite directly facing the Grand Canal. It was so beautiful – perfect, really – yet I’d still been left feeling a little forlorn at how we wouldn’t be spending our official wedding night in our own house. It didn’t last very long though, because any lingering regrets were swiftly obliterated once it was clear this would be some of the most intense sex we’d ever had in our lives; possibly second only to the very first night we slept together. We kept gazing into each other’s eyes the entire time, wondrously touching one another’s faces like we couldn’t quite believe the other person was real. I remember I kept calling your name rather helplessly, and how long it took me to realise you were doing the same to me and I’d been so absorbed by your presence I hadn’t even noticed. At one point I almost grew tearful with the intensity of it, so you’d bundled me into your arms against your chest, stroking my hair very soothingly while murmuring something tender in Italian. Your voice sounded faintly unsteady, and I knew then that you were seeking comfort as much as you were giving it. It was almost strange to realise that: how happiness could be so overwhelming, even for someone as coolly aloof as you are.

“There is no withstanding or escaping from you, is there?” you said next day once we were stretched out exhausted across the bed with your legs tangled up in mine. You were a bit drunk by this point, which was both endearing and unusual; a sign of how relaxed you were that you’d dropped any pretence of restraint. “Whoever tasted you would hunger for you eternally yet never hope to be satisfied.”

“Okay, that’s great,” I’d replied. I remember leaning over to kiss your forehead: your eyes were starting to cross, and I couldn’t decide if it was more adorable or hilarious so had finally settled on some ungodly combination of the two. “Enough of the cannibal puns.”

“But it’s true,” you’d said. You smiled to yourself at that, very teasing and affectionate, then reached up to cradle your palm against the base of my skull. “How is satisfaction even possible? You gratify one craving, only to immediately present another thing for me to crave for. I have perpetual longings in me, and you are endless appetites and infinite variety.”

“And you are drunk,” I said. “And morbid. And I love you more than I have words to say. So yeah – please feel free to spend the rest of our honeymoon telling me how you regret not eating me when you had the chance.”

I was starting to laugh by then, so you’d simply smiled back at me before stretchingyour arms above your head, basking away in a stray ray of sunlight like a huge jungle cat. You looked so contented; playfully mischievous in a way that was rather out of character. It was as if all your sharper edges had been slowly sanded off. Then I remember thinking how even now you still looked dangerous – all that pulsing energy contained in every coil of muscle – and how I knew I’d never want you to be anything else.

“You understand me better than I can understand myself,” you’d finally added after another pause. You were gazing up at the ceiling by then, a bemused little frown flickering over your face like you couldn’t quite believe we’d ended up here after all the disasters that had overtaken us. “Yet it would still take a lifetime to fully know you. A lifetime of years, beloved: and if you wished it, you could spend every one of them binding me to my desire for your heart and mind. To the limitless views from your imagination.”

The sight of you was continuing to make me smile; just the fact that you were so happy, and drunk, and how even now you still weren’t done. But there was also something so tender and sincere in your voice that it was enough to shake me out of my amusement and just quietly lean forward instead so I could press a kiss against your forehead. For a few moments I remember gazing into your eyes, so absorbed and intense that briefly I felt like I could have got lost in them. You looked so perfect, it scarcely seemed possible you could be real. It made me think of those long, lonely days when I’d thought you’d gone for good: all the times I saw you when you were never truly there. The way I’d imagine you coming into the empty apartment or hospital room, only to have to wait for the final agony of watching you walking away and leaving me over and over again.

“That’s okay,” I’d told you. I’d reached my hand up then to touch you: to feel how reassuringly warm and real you were. “We’ve got time now: we’ve got as long as we need. We’ve got the rest of our lives.”

***

In addition to the mutual viewing, choosing, and moving, another thing we did together in respect to the house was to decorate it. And we really did do it together, because if the Florence apartment was a showcase for your own tastes and preferences then this time the décor is a far more balanced blend that resembles something a little less elaborate than your old place in America while still managing to be a little more elegant than mine. In fact, our only genuine point of contrast is in our respective choice of cars, with me opting for a battered old Jeep (complete with scratched hubcaps and a manual gear stick) and you favouring a vintage Porsche that’s as sleek and suave as you are with gleaming paintwork and an engine so soft it sounds as if it’s purring. I always like seeing you in it: it has a refined, timeless glamour that really suits you. Needless to say this is also a feeling that’s not remotely mutual, seeing how you despise the Jeep with an absolute passion and aren’t above giving small, theatrical shudders of distaste whenever you see me getting into it. To be honest it’s quite amusing, because it’s so obvious you’re torn between wanting me to buy something more expensive while also enjoying the fact my tastes are so radically opposed to your own. It’s as if the fondness for a shitty old Jeep is an eccentricity about me which you find endearing, so while you hate the car itself you love the fact that I like it. In a weird way it feels like another metaphor for how our actual relationship has started to shift: the growing ability to value each other’s differences as virtues which make the other person unique rather than irritants that require altering by force.

In this respect both cars get substantial use in our separate spheres of preference: mine for hauling around the countryside and yours for our regular trips to the city. My original plan had been to settle somewhere in the south, but after considering it for several weeks I found myself changing my mind and opting for Sabina instead – mostly for no better reason than I knew how much you’d enjoy being so close to Rome. It wasn’t like it was even a difficult compromise because the area is outright stunning: a quintessentially Italian landscape complete with ancient villages, rolling hills of olive groves, and even an occasional Roman ruin scattered around the valley. It also has a climate that’s mild enough to accommodate my constant bitching about sunburn and heatstroke while remaining warm enough for you to bask in the sun like a big lizard and ensure your tan gets topped up to suitable levels of flawlessness. I suppose in reality it’s not that much cooler than Florence was, yet somehow it still always feels like it due to an abundance of open sky and empty space that tempts me to spend far more time outdoors than I ever did in the past. This, in turn, has prompted the discovery of a newfound enthusiasm for gardening, which to my total surprise (and I think yours too) I appear to have some actual skill for. I’m not even sure why, but there’s just something so satisfying about it: the soothing, rhythmic nature of sifting through soil and tending to plants, content in a sense of connection to the world while also being removed from all its demands.

“Freud had an observation about that,” you replied when I tried to explain it you. “Flowers are restful to look at. They have no emotions or conflicts.” You’d smiled after you said it, staring at me for a few moments before running your finger rather thoughtfully down the side of my face. “I think you have found a natural occupation there, beloved. Horticulture provides you with a total freedom from other people.”

Of course, it was obvious you weren’t including yourself in this equation, but I’ve found I actually do enjoy it more when you’re somewhere in the background: not speaking necessarily, but just a quietly comforting presence. Inevitably you’ve also become a favourite source of inspiration for it too, with one of my proudest achievements so far being the creation of an herb bed which I built for you by hand from glossy cypress wood before filling with a fragrant riot of Mediterranean staples: Italian parsley, Genovese basil, oregano, thyme, sage, rosemary and fennel. It’ll take another year or so to fully come into its own, but in the meantime has still flourished sufficiently for you to come out in the evenings to select whatever cuttings you might want for that night’s meal. Unbeknown to you I make a habit of peering out the window whenever you do this, because the expression on your face makes me happy in a way that’s hard to express. The thing is, I always see you smile when you look at it – every single time.

In a similar spirit of pleasing you, my most recent project has been building a trellis for grape vines after hearing you express an interest in learning to make your own wine. To be honest if it was anyone else I’d probably be fairly sceptical about the success of the scheme, but your ability to ensure an accomplished job of it seems so certain that it’s possessed me to go into a frenzy of research to guarantee I come out the other end offering you the most superior set of braces, brackets and beams that amateur hands can possibly assemble. I suppose if all else fails then at least it’ll still be a distinguished addition to the garden, given that the brackets are wrought iron shipped from Genoa and the beams are solid redwood – and were both chosen not only for being so resilient, but because they were far more attractive than the alternatives and because money is no longer an issue. I actually found myself hesitating while placing the orders as I sometimes still struggle to remember that, even though (for the first time ever) it’s actually true.  

As I’m thinking this American Girl now comes onto Spotify, and I soon find myself starting to hammer along in time to it (followed by whistling, then culminating in actual singing) because it’s reminding me of college vacations while my dad was having a Tom Petty phase. I reach a kind of screeching crescendo with ‘Oh yeah, all right, take it easy baby, make it last all night,’ when you walk into the garden just in time for ‘She was an American Girl.’ You’re wearing the shirt that I bought you last week; olive green, in a light thin cotton, and which follows a similar custom to all the ones I gave you before it in that it’s far more suitable for rural living than your existing collection of tailored silks and crêpes. You give every indication of appreciating these gifts for their own sake, although even if you didn’t I suspect you’d still happily wear them. It’s as if the clothes themselves are almost an afterthought, with the thing that gives you the greatest pleasure being the fact I bought them for you in the first place. This one is particularly flattering, and a part of me wants to tell me how good you look this way before deciding it wouldn’t be accurate because you look good every way. It’s actually quite distracting (and doesn’t bode at all well for the progress of the trellis). For efficiency’s sake I suppose I really ought to tell you to go and be handsome and smouldering someplace else.

You now start to smile when you hear me singing, which promptly makes me smile too (despite logic dictating that I should, in fact, be deeply mortified at getting caught redheaded bellowing along to Dad Music). I really can’t help it though. Your satisfaction is so incredibly infectious, mostly because you’re not smiling just because you think it’s funny: you’re happy for the simple reason that I’m happy. And in turn, I’m happy because I’m here with you – and because simple, straightforward happiness with no strings attached still isn’t something I’m entirely used to. I’m like someone trying alcohol for the first time; not quite knowing how to moderate or adapt to it while only being certain that they’re craving more. My happiness leads to madcap fits of exuberance where I’ll suddenly pounce on you, or start cackling over something childishly dumb, or simply stand there in the sun singing Tom Petty at the top of my voice because I feel like I’m young again. Although in a way maybe I am. After all, what else is youthfulness if not a new lease of life? What else if not a second chance.

As American Girl draws to a close you now settle yourself into your sunchair – I also have one of these, which is admittedly less well used but always positioned directly opposite yours – then stretch out your long legs in front of you and proceed to watch me assembling the trellis with a huge smirk on your face (while also dropping multiple hopeful hints about how I’m going to end up over-heating and would be far more comfortable if I took my shirt off). I take my time fixing the rafter I’m working on then finally put the down the hammer so I can turn round to smirk back at you.

“So you can leer at me from a distance?” I ask. “Are you going to catcall me too?”

“Not at all: I intend to keep my leering entirely silent.”

“Well, tough – you’ll have to wait to the evening to leer. If I take my shirt off now I’ll burn.”

“Very true, beloved,” you reply, rolling your eyes heavenward like a martyr tied to a stake. “If only some enterprising scientist could have invented a lotion to protect from the sun.”

“Enough already. Do you want this trellis finished or not?”

As I watch your face promptly starts arranging itself into one of your favourite ‘well, actually’ expressions: I pause, hammer suspended mid-air, then raise my eyebrows expectantly. “It just so happens,” you add smugly, “that the correct term is an arbor.”

“Is it now?”

“Indeed it is. Alternatively, one might refer to a ‘pergola’.”

“Look, I’ll tell you what,” I say, stooping down to retrieve the tape measure. “I’ll carry on with this trellis, and you can build yourself a terminologically-correct arbor.” I pause again then give a small snort at the image of it. “Or at least, you could try.”

“Nevertheless,” you reply, beginning to smile too. “My point still stands.”

“Yeah, I guess it does,” I say. “Which is more than this trellis will if you cobble it together.”

You give the most godawful smirk at this then stretch out against your chair again, very long and lithe. “That’s perfectly true mylimasis,” you reply. “I am not as good with my hands as you are.”

Needless to say you still somehow manage to make ‘being good with your hands’ sound like an insult (and which tends to be your standard response to anything you don’t excel at, mainly on the basis that if you don’t already know it then it can’t possibly be worth taking the trouble to know at all). I start to laugh then rummage for a few more screws from my toolbox so I can get started on the new set of hinges. You immediately lean back a little further in your chair, watching my progress with interest in a way I find both amusing and endearing.

“You know, I think you’re being a bit hard on yourself there,” I add once I’ve straightened up again. “You’re good at some things with your hands.”

“I am extremely accomplished at many things,” you reply in the same smug voice. “But the expression denotes some kind of practical craft.” You pause to give your own hands a look of intense admiration then wave one of them around as if gesturing to an unspoken multitude of ‘practical crafts’ that it’s far too superior to ever want to learn how to do. “Carpentry and such.”

“I’ve never heard someone sound so pleased with themselves for being incompetent,” I say fondly. “It’s actually quite impressive.”

“Hands are very fascinating, aren’t they?” is all you reply – and which isn’t remotely surprising, seeing how you’ll never outright admit to being incompetent at anything (the implication being that of course you’d be a goddamn prodigy at it if you ever gave it the honour of deciding to learn). It’s as if as far as you’re concerned the competence isn’t non-existent, merely in a state of hibernation. “We so often take them for granted,” you now add. “Yet they are very ingenious devices.”

“Mmm, I guess that’s true.” I pause with hammering the hinge into place then take a quick look to see if you’re still gazing adoringly at your own (you are). “Very…resourceful.”

“And very protean in how they express it. Hands can paint the Sistine Chapel or demolish the Alexandria Library: such an infinite capacity for cruelty and kindness.”

“I think that says more about what they’re attached to,” I say. “Wasn’t it Kant who claimed that hands are the visible part of the brain?”

“Oh yes,” you reply. “Undoubtedly; they are merely tools, when all is said and done.” I nod again then silently hunt around for some more nails (silence being the most economical option, because of course there’s no way you’re actually done yourself). “Yet such intricately impressive ones,” you now add, right on cue. “They have a certain language of their own. And of course, so many idioms are associated with them. To get out of hand. To be in good hands. To change hands.”

“To kill someone with your bare hands,” I add wryly. “Just as another example.”

It’s only now I remember (somewhat too late) that the last time I said this to you was in the context of fantasising how I’d kill you – and which as married reminiscences go is admittedly rather…unfortunate. Needless to say, you don’t look offended though. If anything, you look delighted; at the very least for you to finally stop flirting with your hands for long enough to lean back in the chair again instead.

“In that respect fingerprints are extremely resilient,” you say in a thoughtful voice. “I once wrote a paper about post-mortem exsiccation of the fingertips.”

“Well…okay then,” I reply. “Good for you, I guess.”

“I remember a case where the corpse had been submerged in water for three months and the impressions were still readable.”

“Oh yeah? The longest I ever saw was less than two – although that was on dry land.”

“During winter, I suppose?”

“Of course.”

“Then I wish you better fortune in the future,” you reply with typical smugness. “Perhaps at some point you shall be able to experience the marvel of fingerprint restoration quite as extensively as I have.”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” I say. Your sole response is to smirk back at me without elaborating…to which I begin folding my arms across my chest as a sign of battlelines being drawn, and we proceed to have a truly terrible conversation over which of the two of us has seen more dead bodies over the years, me or you.

“I mean, obviously it’s me,” I say firmly. “I did this for an actual living. My entire career was based on finding corpses.”

As I watch you immediately start to smirk again. “You are irritated, aren’t you?” you ask.

“No,” I say. “Not really.”

It’s at this point that one of your hands now makes a reappearance and starts to wave itself round in front of me in swooningly elegant circles. I stare at it, rather fascinated; it’s like it’s your wingman, abruptly appearing out of nowhere just to back you up. “I confess, beloved,” you add with another smirk, “I am tempted to let you sulk for a few moments simply to relish the spectacle of it. These little flares of anger are so pure and authentic; it’s impossible not to wish to kindle them into even greater heights. They are also immensely charming. Curious isn’t it? It’s the sort of thing I would find unbearably ugly in anyone else.”

“Thank you,” I reply with exaggerated patience. “But I still say that it’s me. I’ve seen virtually all the same ones you have, remember – plus a whole lot more.”

“You seem very certain about that,” is all you reply. “However, as much as it pains me to admit it, I did have quite a few years of life before meeting you.”

You sound so incredibly pleased with yourself that the full surrealness of the conversation finally hits me and I end up laughing all over again at how fucked up the whole thing is. You smile back, suddenly looking so relaxed and playful that I have an uncontrollable urge to go over and kiss you. I like seeing you this light-hearted, and I know exactly why it is: it’s because you enjoy having someone close to you who understands you this well. Even as recently as last night I could recognise it. We’d been to a performance of Aida when one of the locals (appearing to sense a fellow opera connoisseur) had cornered you in the foyer to gush at tedious and extensive length about the quality of the tenor playing Radamès. You’d caught my eye from across the room, and while it was only a single glance it was obvious how much you valued having somebody to connect with. Someone who can understand things the same way you do. Who can make you laugh. Who knows the right way to push your buttons – or even recognise that you have buttons to push. It’s a mistake I always used to make about you, didn’t I? After all, you’re so aloof and self-sufficient that in many ways it was hard to imagine you ever being capable of feeling lonely. It also made you more frightening, because it removed you one step further from the realm of typical human reasoning. You were something unknowable and unrelatable who strolled around humanity and was fascinated by it, and dependent upon it, and even a little bit in love with it, yet never truly part of it. The ultimate outsider…a species all of its own. Being with you this last year has finally proved to me how wrong that assumption was – and always has been.

As if reading my mind your smile now begins to soften – less from amusement and more from affection – before you reach out a hand towards me. “Come here, beloved,” you say.

As invitations go this is an extremely easy one to accept; I smile back at you, then busy myself with brushing the worst of the sawdust off my hands so I can stroll over to join you by your chair. I end up squatting on the grass with my back tucked snugly against your legs, and while it’s the sort of position that would once have bothered me as being too submissive I genuinely don’t care about it now. Finally, I’m past that kind of uncertainty; it no longer feels like I have anything to prove to you. I can sit at your feet, and you can sit at mine, and neither of us has anything left to feel insecure or threatened over. At the thought of it I start to smile to myself, comfortably stretching back against you at the same time as your fingers begin to gently slide through my hair.

“You know, I really think you should remove your shirt,” you say, your hands briefly skimming downwards until they’re stroking the side of my throat instead. “Heatstroke is a terrible thing.”

I make an amused sound then follow it up with a lazy prod to your leg. “Nice try. So now it’s your medical opinion I take my clothes off?”

“Yes, indeed,” you say. “Doctor’s orders.” I tip my head back to smirk at you, so you smile down rather wolfishly then wait a few moments before hooking both hands around my shoulders to hoist me up onto your lap. I make a startled oof noise at the suddenness of it, only to promptly start laughing instead at the awareness of how incredibly dumb I must look (despite having precisely zero desire to move again).

“Actually,” I say, giving your forehead an affectionate nudge with my own. “I think you’ll find you were struck off.”

“And yet my expertise lingers on.” You repeat the previous predatory smile then slowly dip your fingers down to caress the soft skin at the back of my neck. “How would I forgive myself if you were to fall ill?”

“You’d be properly punished for it.” I twist round to give you another smirk. “Who do you think’s the one who’d have to nurse me back to health?”

“Very true,” you say, beginning to flick open the top few buttons of my shirt with your other hand. “Clearly this is an act which benefits us both.”

“Clearly.” I lean further back until my head is resting fully on your shoulder, deliberately relaxing my arms to make it easier for you to pull the shirt off entirely before tossing it aside. The only other thing I’m wearing is a pair of cut-off jeans which have grown progressively shorter over the summer from where the hem keeps fraying and I’m too lazy to fix them as opposed to just scissoring off another inch of fabric. As you drop the shirt to the ground you now pause for a few moments, slowly sliding your fingertips just far enough beneath the waistband to massage my hipbones until you feel me shiver.

“And now I finally have you,” you say. “I feel as if I have been trying to entice you all morning.”

“Serves you right,” I say smugly. “It’ll do you good to learn to wait for once.”

“How incredibly heartless you are,” you reply with obvious fondness. “Where has all your famous empathy gone? You are supposed to take pity on how mindlessly captivated I am. You should feel sorry for your admirers when they lose their heads over you.”

“Not this admirer,” I say. “Cry me a river.”

You make an amused sound at this then pretend to bite my jaw. “Well, I have you now,” you repeat. “And am feeling suitably triumphant as a result. I can’t deny it, beloved: I still gain a powerful sense of satisfaction whenever I succeed in making you come to me.”

This makes me laugh despite myself, even though I know what you mean. “I’m not a dog,” I say.

“Indeed you are not: a dog’s confidence would be far easier to win.” You smile again then lean down slightly to give my hair an affectionate nuzzle with your forehead. “I find it rather irresistible, Will. The sense that someone like you, so perpetually restrained and reserved, would finally allow themselves to grow so obedient when in the care of someone they trust.”

“Hmm, maybe,” I say, reaching over myself so I can gently tug at your earlobe with my teeth. “Although you might want to retract that word ‘obedient’. It sounds a bit too much like wishful thinking.”

“Yes, no doubt you are right.” You give my hair another nuzzle, then finally lean back again and let out an exaggerated sighing sound as your hands briefly tighten their grip on my waist. “Besides, I can’t tame you forever can I? Afterwards I’ll have to let you go again: release you back into the wilderness. My war deity and warrior. My hunter…my little wild thing. Like a beautiful bird of prey, Will. Can I trust you to come back again when you’re called, or do I need to find a way to keep you here?”

You pause a few moments, appearing to wait for an answer, only to abruptly lower your head to kiss me before I can provide one. You really take your time about it too, even providing a sort of farewell gesture when it ends by running your tongue along my lower lip, slowly massaging it your thumb, then finally sliding your finger into my mouth for to me to suck. “I can’t clip your wings, can I beloved?” you murmur as you pull away again. “You’d always find a way to stop me. No, force is never going to work on you…I simply need to try and tame you better.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” I say fondly.

“Thank you,” you reply with exaggerated seriousness. “Your good wishes are appreciated.”

I give a snort of laughter. “Although, if I’m going to be fair…”

“Yes, please do.”

“To be fair,” I repeat, giving my hips a suggestive little roll against your groin. “You haven’t done a bad job so far. I mean, I married you didn’t I? And now I’m sitting here half-naked on your knee when I’m supposed to be building your grape frame.”

“But it’s your own fault my love.” I can feel your lips skimming against my cheekbone now. It’s nice; very light and warm. “It’s true that patience is supposed to be a virtue, but I’m afraid mine has expired. You’ve been flaunting this beautiful body the entire morning: all this lovely skin toiling away in the sun, damp and flushed and glowing like ivory. How long did you think I could possibly keep a sense of restraint?” There’s another small pause, this time for you to gently scrape your teeth along the side of my throat. “I ought to take you inside and punish you for being so provoking.”

“Ought you?” I ask in an innocent voice. “I’d like to see you try.”

“But how could you stop me, dearest?” you ask, with a smile that (if possible) is even more wicked than any of the previous ones. “I’m much stronger than you are.”

I make another snorting noise that’s half-amused, half-exasperated, then before you can add anything else wrench my head round to press my lips against yours. At the same time I fist at your hair with my fingers to tug your head back; licking into your mouth to fully taste it, then sucking your upper lip between my teeth until I hear you gasp. I’m being deliberately teasing now, brushing your jaw with my tongue then sliding it back into your mouth only to make you growl with frustration when I quickly pull it straight out again. Your response is to scrape along my throat even harder before seeming to change your mind halfway through and instead providing a tender lick of apology against the graze your teeth have made.

“Yet you have been provoking me,” you say fondly when you eventually pull away. “It’s a very reckless habit of yours, beloved. Some would say I am not an especially safe person to attempt to rouse.”

“I guess some people might say that,” I reply, promptly shifting round again to begin kissing my way along your cheekbone. “But I learned from the best. Maybe I just like to wind you up and watch you go? Or maybe I like seeing how you look beneath your person suit.”

You huff out a laugh at this, followed by another light application of teeth. “My beautiful boy,” you murmur, straight against my skin. “You think I couldn’t punish you if I really wanted to?”

“I don’t think you’d got enough self-control to wait that long,” I say. You’ve got your palm curved around my throat now, gently gripping it to keep my head in place as your free hand begins to glide down my chest. Your touch feels so good against my bare skin…I wonder if you can feel how frantically my heart is beating? “I think you want me right now,” I add rather breathily. “Right here on the floor.”

You softly hum with agreement then pull back a little so you can admire the bruise you’ve been busy sucking below my jaw. As you run your finger over it I make a mental note to do the same to you later, already relishing the way everyone will see it and the sense of ownership of you it would imply. At thought of it I give another small moan then reach round myself so I can stroke the side of your cheek, murmuring your name very lovingly as you devotedly lean into the touch. It’s so weird to realise it, but before meeting you I really don’t think I understood that so many expressions and varieties of sex could exist; each inviting a different presentation of the participants as if it’s an idiom all of its own, a language of the body. I wonder what it’s going to be like this time? With you it could be anything (although to be fair I can be equally unpredictable myself). For example, it might be the languid tender kind in which you gaze into my eyes and call me beloved; stroking my face and tangling our fingers together while you tell me how beautiful you think I am, how desired, how much you want me to enjoy it – how good you want to make me feel. This kind tends to be softly lit by candles or warmed in the afternoon sun and is always guided by worshipful, questing touches which seek to read a story in each other’s skin the way a blind person reads Braille. It’s quiet and yearning in the morning or sweetly peaceful in the evening: beginning with soft kisses then ending with murmured pledges of how the other is adored and valued – how they’re essential – before falling asleep entwined in each other’s arms.

On the other hand, there’s also a more turbulent kind that’s fiercely riotous and fiery: the kind where nails are scraped against shoulders or teeth dug into delicate skin, and that’s furious and exhilarating and feels as much like opponents in a fight as it does a pair of lovers because neither of us is ever prepared to submit first. This is a type that’s saturated with bruising tenderness and vicious intimacy, where I’ll twist your arms to keep you still then drag your head back by the hair before you pin me down by the wrists and grip my throat until I gasp; the type that scorches and scalds and is what love would be like if it was set on fire.

And then there’s also another kind entirely; the kind which pushes my boundaries and dismantles inhibitions I didn’t even realise I had but have thoroughly enjoyed getting rid of. In this respect you’ve been very busy assisting with this mutual project, mainly by providing a range of gifts which include (but are not limited to) a collection of plugs of varying dimensions, assorted prostate massagers, a set of anal beads, two more collars (one leather, one knotted silk), a spreader bar, and even a headboard restraint that left me trapped on all fours while you knelt behind me and ate me out for so long I ended up coming completely untouched. I’ve let you film me during all these things, then lain in your arms afterwards to watch the footage back without a single shred of shame or self-consciousness. It’s liberating, really; that newfound sense of comfort and confidence both in you and myself. It’s unexpectedly empowering too, because while you’re ostensibly in control for most of it there’s never any doubt that the one with the ultimate power is me – that it’s not so much a question of how much you can take, but how much I’m willing to let you have.

This entire time your lips have been continuing to skim my throat and jaw, but it’s only once your hand has started dipping lower down my chest that you finally reach out with the other to retrieve a bottle of suncream from the side of your chair. You still haven’t bothered denying the accusation about your lack of self-control, and I now have a private smile at the thought of it before letting out a low moan as warm palms begin to smooth the suncream across my skin. It’s very light and fragrant – slippery without being greasy – although I think it’s the emotional sense of being touched so tenderly that’s pushing me closest towards the edge. There’s something worshipful about it; reverential, almost. It's like you’re trying to memorise my body with your fingertips while also trying to imprint yourself on it: as if the sheer power of your touch can instil a sense of yourself right into me. You want to brand me with an ineffable sign of ownership which can ensure that from now on, whenever people look at me, what they’ll really be seeing is you.

“My plans remain unchanged,” you now murmur, your lips brushing very softly along the side of my ear. “I shall still take you inside later, mylimasis. I have a new gift for you: something very special.”

Instinctively I find myself spreading my legs apart, shamelessly arching up against you as your lips continue their rhythmic, feathery kisses along my face and throat. Your hands are still continuing their slow exploration, although it’s only when you feel me starting to quiver that you finally move down far enough downwards to palm the very obvious erection that’s begun to tent the front of the denim.

“My love,” you murmur, delightedly running your hand across it. “You like the thought of that, don’t you?”

“Is it something for me?” I ask, then promptly let out another moan as you deftly unfasten the button to peel the shorts right off. “Or is it…for both of us?”

“For you directly,” you reply in the sort of languid, sensuous tone that always goes straight to my groin. “And myself by proxy. It’s a new toy for us to amuse ourselves with; a new plug, to be specific – although somewhat different to your other ones.”

I moan again then quickly twist myself round, pressing rapturous kisses against your face and hair before gently nipping at your jaw with my teeth. “Different?” I ask. “That sounds rather…intriguing.”

“It is extremely intriguing,” you say softly. “It has a base that allows it to be fixed in place to the floor – and is so very, very long and thick. When I take you to bed you’re going to undress for me beloved, then get on your knees so you can prepare yourself. I shall hold your legs apart for you, but that’s the only assistance you’ll receive. Otherwise, you will have to acquit yourself; I want to see those lovely, slim fingers siding in and out of your body for as long as it takes.” You pause to lean forward again – slowly measured and sensuously menacing – then begin to trace your lips against my face, interspersing the hint of feather-light kisses with the continuingly crooning words. “Get yourself soaking wet,” you say. “Enough that the lubricant is glistening all the way down your thighs when you stand up again. You’re going to need it, my love. Because after that you are going to get off the bed and walk over to where your plug will be waiting for you. I want to watch you lower yourself onto it. One inch after another…I want you to show me how much you can take.”

“Oh fuck, yes.” I groan again, craning my neck into increasingly painful angles so I can scrape my teeth against any part of you I can reach. “You know I’ll be able to take it. Although it might be a struggle at first – you should get me to wear my collar at the same time.” Your breath hitches loudly, which immediately makes me smile; it was easy to guess how much you’d like the thought of that. “I’ll still do it though,” I murmur into your skin. “Besides, I bet it’s still not as big as you are.”

As you catch your breath again I leave another longer pause, deliberately letting the tension stretch out while I drag my tongue in a delicate swipe along the length of your jaw. “What’s my reward going to be afterwards?” I ask softly. “Are you going to let me have the real thing? You are, aren’t you; you know you always end up giving me whatever I want. Which hole would you like to fill up most, do you think: my mouth or my ass? Or are you just going to have both of them, one after the other?”

The way I’ve been teasing you about self-control means the irony isn’t lost on me now that it’s looking like mine is about to slip first. In fact, something as simple as hearing you catch your breath again seems to be enough to make it snap completely, and I now roughly twist myself free of your grip so I can turn round to straddle you with my knees on either side of your thighs. You immediately take hold of my waist with one hand; thumb rubbing my hipbone in slowly sensuous circles as I grind my hips against the hard length of your thigh. Already I’m seriously close to losing it: frantically scabbling at your chest, stroking along your shoulders, then finally wrapping both arms around your back to hold you tight. 

“Are you going to give it to me?” I repeat. I wait a few moments, catching your eye before slowly darting out my tongue to moisten my lips. “Or will you make me beg for it first? You can if you want – you know I’ll always start begging you to let me have your cock in me. I can’t pretend anymore can I, even if I try to. I can’t hide it at all.”

You let out of your breath in a long exhale – a sigh so low it’s almost a hiss – so I lean further forward until I can press my lips along your jaw again. You smell so good: I love that sense of breathing you in. Sometimes I feel as if could get drunk on you, simply by inhaling the scent of your skin.

“How many years did you fantasize about it?” I murmur in between kisses. “Seeing me spread out on your bed with my legs wide open…leaking all over myself while I’m begging you to fuck me?”

You promptly repeat the sighing sound, so I quickly catch your lower lip between my teeth and give it another gentle tug. Even through several layers of clothing I can feel the hard, thick line of your erection jabbing into me; without breaking eye contact I now slide my hand beneath your waistband to take hold of it, slowly smearing the pre-come round the head with my thumb until I hear you gasp.

“Does it feel as good as you imagined?” I ask in the same soft voice. “The way my ass is always so tight when I’m stretched round this huge cock; how long it sometimes takes you to fit? I know you love hearing me beg for it…it’s okay to admit it though, because I love it too. God, I love it so much. I’d beg for hours if you asked me. I’d get down on my knees for you: spread myself open with both hand and just beg. I’d let you film me while I was doing it and I still wouldn’t care. I wouldn’t be ashamed. I’d put the tape on afterwards and it would turn me on, seeing myself so needy and desperate for you. I’d get back on my knees so I could feel your cock in my ass all over again while we watched ourselves fucking on the screen.” I groan slightly then briefly screw my eyes closed as I press my forehead against yours. “I’d do all that, and I wouldn’t feel ashamed.”

This time you don’t even try to respond. It’s like you’ve completely lost the capacity for speech, cradling my face with one hand then possessively clasping my neck with the other because you can’t quite bear to let me go. Instead of speaking you’re just staring at me intensely, clearly unable to tear your eyes away. It’s as if you’re hungry to hear more…as if you want to devour each word as it leaves my lips. To save you the effort of your own speech I now give my hips another hard thrust then slowly lick along the curve of your cupid’s bow.

“I wouldn’t feel ashamed,” I repeat softly. “Because I love you so much, and because finally I feel like I’m your equal. Learning to love you has been like learning to love myself. Do you understand? Needing and wanting you will never be demeaning. It might have felt like that once, but not anymore. Not now…not ever.”

As soon as I say that you let out a growling noise deep in your throat before your mouth roughly moves forward again to slam against mine. We crash together wildly in a mess of tongues and teeth, but even then your impatience is so extreme that it seems like only seconds have passed until you’re seizing my waist with both hands to tug me down with you onto the grass. I land face first, then for a few moments simply feel your lips between my shoulder blades before you’re pulling back again and there’s the sound of you rapidly unfastening your belt. I moan even louder to encourage you, by now half-crazed with how unhinged I’ve started to feel with the heady, exhilarated longing of the whole thing. It’s almost like being high: eyes welded shut, breathing ragged and frantic, my entire body a kaleidoscope of sound and motion that’s deliriously lost in sensation while suspecting that maybe it’s all too much – except for the awareness that it’s also nowhere near enough. It’s partly the intimacy, I think; how ferocious and overpowering it is. I love the way I feel I as if I know your body nearly as well as I know my own: how intensely familiar your touch is, or the feel and weight and scent of you as you press down on top of me.

“Please,” I hear myself gasping. It’s striking how quickly my mood has shifted; if before was concerned with a type of meta-begging then there’s no doubt my urgency is now entirely real. “Please, please, I want you to fuck me.”

You mutter something in Lithuanian then lean down to kiss me again, fingers gliding along my spine with one hand as the other grasps around for the suncream so you can slick yourself up with it. As my legs get pushed apart I bite down harder on my lip; eyes falling tightly closed, then letting out a low whine when a broad thumb begins to massage my hole in long, slow circles. You work me open with tender precision, testing and teasing the tight clench of muscle – almost playing with it in the lightness of the strokes – until two fingers are finally pushing deep inside me while your thumb continues its slippery strokes around the rim. Oh God, it feels good. So good: I give another moan, arching my back then thrusting up against you in a shameless urge to get the pressure as deep as possible. 

“Again,” you say softly, then let out a long sigh as I repeat the thrusting motion until I cry out sharply and a long thread of pre-come spills out of my cock to drip onto my thigh. “Perfect,” you murmur, sounding equally awed and enraptured as you briefly slow the pressure to a series of shorter, firmer thrusts. “My beautiful boy. Look at you, leaking all over yourself. You want it so badly don’t you?”

This time I just groan instead of replying. Having my ass explored this thoroughly is getting me even harder, my body clenching and tightening round the expertly probing fingers until my breath breaks into a pant…and which itself promptly gets smothered in a choked-off moan as soon as I feel the thick, blunt head of your cock start to nudge up against me instead. Your pre-come is so warm and slippery; even through the slickness of the suncream I can tell how wet you are.

“Oh God, Hannibal,” I hiss from between clenched teeth. “Oh my God.”

“Is this what you want mano meilė?” you say softly. “Is it what you’ve been waiting for?”

“Fuck, yes. Please. I need it. I need you.”

You repeat the sighing sound then lean over to drag your tongue along my neck in a hot, wet swipe. “Spread yourself open for me,” you say. “Use both hands.”

I obey immediately, frantically stretching behind me while continuing to chant an urgent litany of ‘pleases’ until it’s clear you’re going to give me what I’ve asked for. You bear down very slowly to begin with, lowering your weight in what feels like barely an inch at a time until finally you’re pushing into the hot, slippery tightness of my body – pushing in deep – and my initial grip of resistance has absolutely no choice but to give way and make room for you. Oh fuck, you’re almost unbelievably hard; I already feel so full and you’re not even halfway in. Behind me you let out your breath in a noisy exhale then bury your face in my hair, your arm wrapped tightly round my chest to help me stay balanced as I draw a few laboured breathes and struggle to get myself under control. The initial sense of being penetrated always makes me lose it slightly; just the awareness of you pushing into me, opening me up, so utterly hard and unrelenting. My own cock is already starting to spasm, and as another rush of pre-come leaks out the slit I shudder then cry out again almost helplessly. Immediately your fingers appear to rub around the head, quickly followed by a deep sigh of pleasure as you feel it too.

“You’re so tight,” you say. You make another sighing sound, spreading my legs even wider apart then briefly holding my hips still so you can watch the long, thick slide of your cock as it pushes in and out my ass. “Mylimasis. Beloved. Aš tave labai myliu. You take it so well. It’s as if your body was made for me.”

“Oh God, Hannibal,” I gasp out, my voice very strained and soft. “I like that. Oh fuck, fuck, I really like it. God…I can’t…I love it so much. I love the way you fuck me.”

You pause very quickly to stroke the curve of my spine before seizing hold of my waist again, rocking me back and forwards onto the thickness of your cock until I’m starting to tremble and make small mewling noises. My chest is visibly heaving by now, pre-come dripping in a steady stream as I buck downwards while you push up; your voice murmuring constant words of praise and encouragement as you give it to me in a series of rhythmic, powerful thrusts that I can really feel.

“Oh yes,” I say, sounding almost shocked. “Just like that.” You promptly pivot your hips even harder, pistoning into me over and over as I make a sound that’s embarrassingly close to a wail.  “Fuck, Hannibal, you feel so good,” I hear myself chanting. “Oh God, it’s you, it’s you…” I sound a bit wild now; I’m not even fully sure what I’m saying. “Everything’s for you. It was always you. Always.”

Once more your reply is sharp and Slavic-sounding – a sure sign you’re so overwhelmed you’ve forgotten to speak English – before you lean back on your heels again to deliver a stinging slap right against my ass. The first time you did that was almost by accident on our wedding night and you looked a bit shocked straight afterwards; it was like you couldn’t believe you’d lost control of yourself so much you’d have touched me in a way that could be considered even slightly aggressive. It was one of the few times you’ve ever apologised unironically, but now that you’ve realised I like it you’ll actually do it quite often. In turn, I’ve always understood without being told that there’s never any intention to hurt me. Admittedly there’s more than a bit of possessiveness to it, but the main reason is simply because of the way the impact makes my muscles clench to grow tighter and firmer round your cock. Right on cue I now give a small whimpering noise then ecstatically spread my legs even wider apart.

“It’s so good,” I gasp out. “Oh God, God, please, it feels so good. Fuck me harder, please...” Glancing down I can see the way my cock is swaying between my legs – how heavy and swollen it looks, another glistening thread of pre-come spilling out the slit – and let out a breathy moan. “I’m not going to touch myself,” I somehow manage to add. “But I won’t let you do it either; I want you to make me come just from fucking my ass.”

Behind me you repeat the growling sound then take hold of my neck with one hand and my hip with the other to delivering a deeper series of thrusts. I can hear you gasping “You’re mine Will. You’re mine,” in the same heady, reckless way I was previously chanting ‘you’ and it’s obvious you’ve lost control of yourself just as much as I have – possibly even more. In this respect, the stuttering motion of your hips shows you’re also equally close to coming, but I’m so desperate for it not to be over that it’s almost a relief when you pull out for a few moments to drape yourself across my back. I can feel your breath on my neck – how hot and rapid it is as you pant against me – until you’re seizing hold of my waist again to flip me round mid-air before tenderly laying me flat across the grass. I give a startled yelp of surprise, so you smile at me then settle down to press a kiss onto my forehead. Your body seems so powerful like this; I remember the sheer force of you used to make me feel small or weak by comparison, but not anymore. Now the weight of your muscles feels very grounding. Comforting, almost, in how containing it is.

“Forgive me, my love,” you now say. “That was incredibly rude of me. But I need to see this beautiful face.”

I smile back at you, hauling in a few ragged breaths before reaching up to cradle your cheek in my hand. “Same,” I reply.

Your sole response to this is to pounce down again to kiss me properly; and while it starts off slow and tender, still manages to spin out of control pretty quickly until we’ve reached a tussle of scraping teeth and panting breath that’s outright savage in how passionate and unrestrained it is. I moan frantically into your mouth the entire time, almost dizzy with the sensation of how you seem to be trying to steal the air right out of my lungs. At one point you even get perilously close to biting me, pressing your teeth deep into my the side of my throat before finally realising what you’re doing and managing to pull away before there’s a risk you’ll break the skin. In fact, it’s only now that I really grow aware of how much I’ve already been covered by similar imprints from your tongue and teeth. I mean, I really am: there’s even a large suck bruise on my inner thigh that’s still gleaming wet with your saliva.

“It’s all right, little wild thing,” you murmur as you hear my breath catch. “Don’t be afraid.” As you’re speaking you wrap one arm around my back, just beneath my shoulders, then tenderly stroke my hair with the other hand. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

It’s striking how you’ll make these kinds of statements quite often now; far more frequently than you ever did in the past. There’s also no doubt how sincere they are, yet I still always get the sense that it’s more for your own sake than for mine; not least because you know I’m no longer concerned that you’d harm me. I’m not wary of you in the way I once was – you could bite me for real and nothing more extreme would happen then I’d probably just call you a dick and bite you back again. Really, they’re much more about the past than the future: a kind of ongoing pledge to yourself that you recognise what you did was wrong, even if you’re not at the point where you could concede as much out loud. In the end I just pull you towards me again as proof that I don’t mind and am not afraid, gasping out your name as I do it in a helpless admission that even if I was you’re so addictive that it’s impossible to resist you when you act like this.

“I love you so much,” you finally add in the same low voice. “And I understand. I understand, mano meilė: what you said before, about how loving me was like loving yourself. It’s the same as the way I used to yearn to know you better, despite the fact it hurt us both. And how it hurt…” You’re stroking my face again now, letting me moan against your skin as you continue sliding in and out of me with a gentle roll of your hips. “Didn’t it Will? Closeness to another person can do that. It requires a level of discomfort, even of pain. All the different heights and depths of intimacy – the intellectual, the emotional, the physical…”

As you pause to let out another gasp I wrap my legs around your waist to pull you closer, taking you as deep as possible while our damp skin slides together and I feel myself tightening round your cock as my own grows slicker and heavier against my stomach. Oh God we’re both getting so close, I can tell. Any moment now we’re going to come, and it’s a sign of how profound this feels to you that you’re somehow able to keep talking through it. It’s obvious how much effort it’s causing: even for you, the willpower required is clearly a struggle. I’m far past the point of coherent speech myself, yet even now I can still force myself to focus on yours. You need me to hear it, don’t you? It matters to you that I know.

“The unwelcome insights it can bring,” you add after another pause. Your movement is growing much more restrained by now: sliding your cock so slowly that I can feel every hot, swollen inch of it as it drags in and out. “The way the Other reflects back oneself. How uncontainable and overwhelming it can be: surrendering control then suffering the loss of self-deception…”

As you give your hips a final grind I’m vaguely aware of you calling my name, your tone filled with such longing and urgency it’s as if I’m far away from you and you’re desperate to summon me back again. The whole thing is incredibly intense, and when you start to come I barely have time to even suck in a stuttering breath before I’m following right behind you. The force of it is so powerful it’s like it’s ripping me apart, my entire body trembling as you make me keep riding your cock long after the thick ropes of come have started spattering over you one after another. Oh fuck, fuck, your cock is still so hard in my ass: you haven’t pulled out yet but are still pumping me with so much of your own that I can feel it trickling out of me even as I’m desperately clenching to try to keep it inside.

The way you fuck me it always feels as if you could keep going for hours, and I now wrench my head round rather wildly, licking a bead of sweat from your forearm before you’re plunging your tongue into my mouth again then sucking at my lower lip. My eyes are actually rolling back in my head, the sense of intimacy so profound between us that it’s close to overwhelming. It’s like I don’t fully know where I end and you begin. Although I suppose that’s the difference now, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter anymore because I no longer need to decide. 

I’ve got my eyes closed but I can still hear you panting right above me, your breath very hoarse and ragged from a blend of exertion and emotion. I’m so wrung out I can barely move, yet it’s just another thing which doesn’t matter because the strength of your arms is holding me steady and secure. Our faces are still very close – only centimetres apart – so I now reach out to trace my thumb across your lips until finally opening my eyes again so I can gaze straight into yours.

“Never stop showing me yourself,” I say softly. “And never stop letting me see myself in you.”

***

It’s getting late in the day by now, yet the sun is still so bright – and your body feels so warm and inviting – that I can’t think of a single good reason to not simply stay where we are stretched out across the grass. This, in fact, is one of several benefits I didn’t fully factor for when choosing the house although it’s certainly one we’ve taken full advantage of ever since: namely the ability to have long loud sex in the garden, secure in a total sense of privacy and all the resulting freedom it brings. I suppose having favoured such remote living in my previous life then this perk should maybe have occurred to me sooner; although then again, I also never had someone like you to share it with, so perhaps it’s not that surprising after all? I smile to myself at the thought of it then settle down a little more snugly against you, trying to resist a powerful urge to nap. It’s actually quite a struggle: I’m currently resting my head across your stomach, and while it’s possibly not very comfortable for you I still really like it because of how firm and smooth your muscles feel.

“I hope no deliveries arrive,” I say sleepily, because even now my ability to be the Voice of Doom isn’t fully extinguished. “Just imagine if the GLS guy walked in.”

Above me you make a contented sound and slowly stretch your arms behind your head. “Then I would have to kill him,” you reply.

“Yeah, I guess you would,” I say wryly. “And I guess I’d have to help you. Share the load, as it were.”

“Alternatively, you could take the entire load.” You reach down to catch my chin between your fingers then smile at me rather beatifically. “It is, after all, somewhat hot.”

Even though I know you’re joking (at least…I think you are), I don’t actually believe this for a second: it would, after all, take far more than extreme heat and nakedness to stop you from murdering someone if you really wanted to. Let’s face it, you could probably murder people during floods, hurricanes, Biblical plagues of locusts, the zombie apocalypse, and assorted disasters of land, air, and sea if the situation demanded it. Saying it’s too hot to murder anyone is probably just your idea of being modest.

At this point I start to laugh rather manically before hitching myself upwards so I can bury my face in your neck. “Oh God,” I say. “We’re both so twisted.”

Instead of replying you just smile again then haul me a bit closer to you – possibly because you think I’m joking as well, or (far more likely) because you think it’s too obvious to require confirmation. “Sei talmente bello così,” you say. “I enjoy seeing you this way. Happiness suits you, my love.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Grazie. I think so too.”

You smile a bit more at this, then spend a few moments simply watching me in silence while I amuse myself with the Extremely Intellectual pursuit of winding strands of your hair round my finger. “I have a request,” you finally add.

“Sure,” I reply without looking up. In fact, I’m still staring at your hair; God knows why I’m suddenly so fascinated with it, but I can’t seem to help myself. It’s just so soft. Far more than mine is, with the sunlight bringing out all sorts of interesting shades that are normally concealed in dimmer light: rich bands of chestnut, an occasional coppery strand of auburn, and even one or two faint traces of blond entwined with the more prominent sable and chocolate tones. Then I realise I’ve got so preoccupied with it I’ve completely forgotten to respond, so now have to force myself to add rather sheepishly: “What do you want?”

“I want you to pose for me,” you say. “Now. Like this.”

“Pose?” I repeat, temporarily confused. “What, you mean…like for a sketch?”

“Exactly so.” As you’re speaking you lean forward a little further, your breath very warm against my skin as you begin to kiss the side of my throat. “I want to capture how you look when you’ve just been made love to.”

“Oh, okay then,” I reply, without even thinking about it. “Sure. If you like.”

As soon as you hear that your entire face lights up. I mean it really does; and it’s only when you’ve kissed my forehead in silent appreciation and are moving away to retrieve your sketchbook that I finally remember how this was yet another thing that I never used to let you do. You asked me so many times didn’t you, but I always kept refusing you permission. I’d dismiss it with words like ‘cringey’ or ‘awkward’, only to end up resenting myself for being so self-conscious (then taking the frustration out on you instead for making me feel that way by asking). You haven’t suggested it for so long it’s as if you’d given up on the idea, and once again it’s striking how well you understand me that this time you knew without being told that I’d have changed my mind.

I’m expecting you to sit in the chair when you return, but instead you just settle yourself on the grass with your pencils arranged next to you by grade in a neat little row. The scalpel inevitably comes too, and there’s something about the deftness with which you wield it that turns me on in a way I realise I’m now increasingly comfortable admitting to. In this respect you also tell me to pose whatever way I’d prefer, but I already know you won’t be able to help yourself; and sure enough, you only manage to last for a couple of minutes before leaning over to manoeuvre me into a position that’s more to your liking. I end up flat on my back with my legs spread open, intensely aware of how all the dried sweat and semen on my stomach are currently getting recorded for posterity (along with the mad sex hair which you won’t let me swipe out my eyes) yet completely unable to care about either. Fuck, I’ve literally still got your come oozing out of me and there’s no doubt you’ll be able to see it too. In fact I’m about as far on display as it’s physically possible to be – there are very likely porn shoots in existence which are less explicit than this – but even that is somehow still less intense than the emotional rawness of it. It’s the sheer sense of exposure, I think; the fact I’m stretched out like this for your scrutiny without any capacity to disguise or conceal. It’s also a degree of vulnerability that I’d never share with anyone else, and the fact I’m allowing this at all is my way of letting you know that I want you to have it. 

As if reading my mind, you now briefly lean over to run your finger down my cheek. “Are you comfortable?” you ask.

Briefly I screw my nose up to think about it. “I think so, yeah,” I say. “I’ll be okay for about another half hour.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yep. I’ll tell you if I need to move.”

“You look rather cramped: stretch yourself out if you want to. Then open your legs a little wider for me; you’ve started pushing your knees together.” I comply immediately and you make a low rumbling sound of satisfaction. “Perfect,” you murmur. “Very lovely and sensuous.”

I give a small sigh of my own in response then arch my back towards you, lips slightly parted as I bask contentedly in the combined warmth of the sun and your obvious admiration. God, I can actually see you starting to get hard again while you’re drawing: your cock very thick and heavy, already gleaming wet at the tip.

“It feels so good doing this,” I say softly, spreading my legs a little further apart. “I like you watching me.”

“I like it too – and I like to hear you enjoy it.” You fall silent for a few moments, eyebrows furrowing slightly as you apply a few deft pencil strokes, then finally glance up at me again from over the top of your sketchbook. “You’d never have felt that way previously, would you?”

“No.” I catch your eye then give a rather wry smile. “Absolutely not.”

“Imagine if I’d asked you when we were still in America,” you add – and which is unexpectedly tactful of you, seeing that you’re deliberately backdating it enough to spare me from having to interrogate my far more recent reservations. “How shocked you would have been.”

“God, yes,” I agree with another smile. “I would have been mortified.”

“Of course you would have been: you didn’t understand how beautiful you are. You’d have been flushing with resentment and humiliation, insisting that you didn’t want to.” You pause then smile to yourself, clearly relishing the image. “I can’t deny it, my love: your discomfort would have been very pleasing. I would have had you entirely at my disposal, knowing you were anxious just for me.”

“Mmm, yes,” I say, giving my back another luxurious stretch. “Just for you.”

“Yet now we’d have had an interesting situation on our hands,” you add, beginning to smile too. “Because no matter how hard I tried to hide it, you’d still have known my interest was far from purely artistic. You’re so perceptive beloved, you’d have noticed straight away. And you’d have liked it, wouldn’t you? It would have excited you: you yearned so badly in those days to be celebrated and accepted. So even though you’d have been glaring at me for the suggestion, I would have known that the rather charming flush on your cheekbones was no longer from embarrassment alone, but also from the first stirrings of desire.”

Immediately I can feel my own smile start to widen; I think we both know this isn’t entirely true, but I like the image of it so much that I still don’t want to contradict you. Instead I just sigh again then let my legs fall even further apart until I hear you catch your breath. “Some time I want to draw you,” I say.

My eyes have briefly slipped closed, but as soon as I ask that I’m aware of the scratch of your pencil abruptly going silent. You’re intrigued by this, aren’t you: I knew you would be. “I wasn’t aware you had an interest in sketching?” you eventually reply.

“A little,” I say, opening my eyes again. “Nowhere near your standard, obviously. But I studied it a bit in high school. I could probably be semi-competent with some practice.”

By this point the expression on your face is extremely predictable: namely annoyance that there’s turned out to be something about me you didn’t already know, combined with intense satisfaction that at least you’re discovering it now. “I would like that very much,” you say.

“Then it’s a deal.”

“It is indeed – and I hope you’re able to derive even a fraction of the pleasure from it as you’re currently giving me.”

I quickly catch your eye to smile at you again. “I don’t think that would be very difficult.”

“Well, let us hope not,” you say lightly. “Because my degree of pleasure is extreme. You’re so beautiful this way, mano meilė: like the favourite model of Raphael or Michelangelo. So sculptured and loose-limbed with all that pale skin and coils of hair. The heat and humidity. The quiet yearning and outspoken passion. Ferociously adorable while fiercely and passionately adored…” You pause for a few more moments, thoughtfully inspecting the sketchbook before retrieving a new pencil to deliver some shorter, firmer strokes. “A tangle of limbs, languor, and longing with a breathless capacity to fascinate, captivate and inspire.”

I clear my throat rather awkwardly in response to this speech then slowly stretch my arms out behind me, doing my absolute best to graciously absorb the praise instead of simply swatting it away from me like I normally do. You immediately start to smile at the sight of it, then finally put the sketchbook aside so you can lie down too, your body neatly propped up on one elbow with your face cupped in your palm. I raise my eyebrows at you questioningly, so you smile again then lean over to press your lips against my forehead.

“You are very stoical,” you say. “And I am having to remind myself not to take too much advantage of it. You’ve been lying still for too long; you require some rest.”

“Look at you, being so conscientious,” I say with a smile of my own. “I could probably get used to this.”

“Yes, indeed.” You’re also continuing to smile, although this time it’s noticeably more pensive than it was before; less playful and more lovingly sincere. “To be candid, I still need to get used to it myself. Other people’s discomfort – even their pain – is not something I’m particularly inclined to take much notice of.”

I give a tiny smirk then stretch my arms further out behind my head. “Really?” I ask. “You don’t say.”

“I do say,” you reply in a thoughtful voice. “Yet I still observe a wave of tenderness within myself that only you are ever truly capable of bringing out. It’s so familiar by now while also so foreign, the same way a reflection is distorted in a broken mirror. On one hand there’s my wish to see what depths of dark artistry and depravity you might be encouraged to descend to, yet on the other is simply a desire to take care of you. You see? Possession one moment, protection the next.”

Once more you fall quiet, and I immediately get the same sense as before that you’re still not done and require further silence to encourage you. In fact, these moments of confession and contemplation are increasingly common now, and I sometimes think they might carry on for years as you continue unravelling our shred tapestry of trauma and terror one thread after another. It’s a form of penance – probably the closest you’ll ever get to saying I’m sorry – but also of concession. In this respect you’ve already implied that if you could change yourself for me then you would, but ultimately both of us know that it's impossible for you to truly alter who and what you are. And likewise, we both understand that you don’t entirely regret what you did to me. You regret the pain and the damage, perhaps, but never the actions themselves, because to deny your behaviour would be to deny all the outcomes it finally brought us. After all, the only version of our lives in which you wouldn’t have harmed me is the one in which we never crossed paths at all.

“The desire to discover another human being in this way,” you finally add. “The fervency of it; and to do so from a spirit of pleasure and appreciation rather than desecration or destruction. It’s yet one more thing that’s unfamiliar.” There’s another beat of silence as you slowly turn round to look at me, eyes skimming across my face with an almost forensic amount of intensity. “I can still remember the sense of foreboding I had when I first met you,” you add in a softer voice. “You with your sad eyes and anxious hands and stunningly dark mind; it was obvious you were a trap just waiting to be fallen into. You were the type of speculation I would normally have avoided, beloved, because such entanglements are a dangerous waste of time – and squandering time is something to which I am, on principle, very strongly opposed. Yet the situation exists as it is. It is irrefutable. Elemental, even. To claim anything else would likewise be a waste of time.”

“Yes,” I say simply after a few more moments have passed and it seems like you’re not going to continue. “Yet here we are anyway.”

“Here we are.” You smile at me again then finally lean back down to brush the edge of my cheek with your thumb. “You’ve brought me so much beautiful chaos, Will. You challenge me very profoundly – and it’s taken me far longer than it should have to appreciate how much I need that kind of unpredictability in my life. You have managed to subvert every expectation I have about myself simply by existing.”

“I know,” I say gently. “I understand that. And you don’t have to worry about getting things wrong again in the future.” Immediately I see your mouth start to open: it’s obvious you want to point out how you never actually worry about anything (worrying being the sort of neurotic, pointless activity reserved for mere mortals and generally lesser minds) so I give you a fond little eyeroll then press my finger over your lips to stop you.

“At some point you’ll screw up,” I add. “You can’t change what you are – and as we’ve finally established, I wouldn’t even want you to. But that means you’ll misjudge me again and make mistakes. And let’s be honest: I will too. At some point I’ll end up doing my own version of it. I’ll retreat. I’ll shut you out.” A faint frown line promptly appears between your eyebrows, so I move my hand from your mouth to cradle the side of your face instead. “I’m not going to lie to you,” I say. “My old habits die hard, same as yours do. But you need to know that whatever happens I’ll always come back to you again.”

For a few moments you just stare in silence, eyes boring into me with that blend of scrutiny that’s uniquely your own and always makes it seem like you’re deciphering every emotional nuance and flicker of expression. You’re so incredibly intense, and it’s easy to tell simply from looking how powerful this pledge still feels to you. As if reading my mind, you now wordlessly lift my hand to your lips to kiss the wedding ring before settling back down again so you can press our faces together. Immediately I reach out with my other hand to cover yours: tightly entwining our fingers as I gaze up at you gazing down at me. Your eyes are very soft and dark, almost glistening, and in that moment I can feel my breath hitch as I’m overcome with a renewed sense of how you’re really seeing me right now: stripping back the layers and artifice and truly seeing me for everything that I am – everything that’s flawed and fucked-up and fatally damaged, everything I used to hate – as if it’s endlessly artful and fascinating. As if it’s something beautiful: your life endeavour and masterpiece…your personal work of art. I swallow audibly at the thought of it, aware of how suspiciously damp my eyelashes are starting to feel. Oh Christ, surely there can’t be tears there? I blink a few times, briefly overwhelmed, and you lean down to place another kiss against my forehead.

“Yes, my love,” you say quietly. “Come back and be somewhere I can always find you; and that you’ll always know where to find me. Will. Mano meilė. If you only knew how vital you are then you would not dare to roam away from me ever again. You would never leave, never stray. You would allow yourself to be as attached to me as my own shadow, and you would remain by my side for as long as we both have life in us.”

I quickly open my mouth to agree, only to find myself hesitating slightly then slowly starting to close it again. Instinctively it feels like what you need from me most right now is the silence to let you express yourself, because this isn’t so much a conversation as it is a declaration: something to be listened to rather than engaged in. In this respect your expression is remains very animated, somehow communicating far more than your actual words are. This is yet another thing about you that’s relatively new, isn’t it? You used to have such a repertoire of eerie, blank intensity that at times it could border on frightening. There was almost something inhuman about it: that total refusal to ever give anything away. You’d reveal so little of yourself, but then even when you finally deigned to there was still a sense of it being cultivated – your approximation of what a genuine human emotion would look like, selected from your mental stash then adorned as casually as a suit of clothes. They were expertly done, yet there was always something slightly unnerving about them. You don’t do that anymore. Now you don’t merely show me what you want me to see; instead, you show me what I most need you to reveal.

“Come back,” you now repeat in the same quiet voice. Your eyes, gazing straight into mine, are as ardent and hypnotic as burning flints. “Come back wild and untameable yet provocative and playful, come back grave and enigmatic – come back entirely yourself. Bring all your thoughts and memories with you, all your darkness and your brilliance, all your lethal beauty, every outlawed thought and forbidden feeling: every day and every hour for the rest of your life.”

As I continue to gaze at you I now reach up to cup your cheek in my hand, smiling slightly when you cover it with your own until our wedding rings are pressed together. Then I tilt my head to the side to get a better view of your face; and while I’m only intending it to be for a few moments I briefly find it impossible to tear my eyes away, because – just a few seconds more, just a few. Just a few more enraptured, agonised moments to simply gaze at…this. At you. The living, breathing paradox. Light and life, problem and solution, all sin yet entirely soul; capable of deciphering all manner of mourning and misfortune while remaining beautiful and terrible and knowing and oblivious – and belonging entirely to me while simultaneously free and unfettered and impossible to fully take possession of. The sublime energy, sense, and sensuality: a voltage that thrums and pulses, and which deserves (demands) to be wrestled and deconstructed before breathed in and savoured. As if thinking the same, you now smile back then move your face until our foreheads are touching, your breath very warm and soft as it ruffles against my eyelashes.

“Come back,” you repeat, so solemn and reverent as it’s as if it’s the words of a prayer. “Come back like you did in the old days; lean against my desk with your hands in your pockets then run your fingers through your hair and smile and sigh and let me possess you. Come back while you’re young and beautiful and gradually grow old in front of me; let me watch you do it, let me watch you for a lifetime. Let me console, complete and transform you, let me see what you can become. Come back, come back…come back to me. Always, Will. Come back and be mine. Come back; and let me love you.”

***

For the next hour or so we now proceed to do absolutely nothing except lie around in each other’s arms; catching each other’s eye and exchanging secret smiles while you murmur to me in Italian and I drift in and out of a mellow sort of half-sleep (then jolt awake at intervals to inform you of my increasingly paranoid fantasies that someone’s going to walk in and see us) before gradually dozing off again. In fact there seems a very real chance that I could stay like this indefinitely, and in the end the only thing that’s enough to finally get me moving again is when there’s a flurry of barking from the back door and the dogs come bounding over to start licking my hands as an announcement they’ve completed their daily siesta and are enthusiastically ready for dinner. Right now there are currently four of these (my ambition is six), all of whom are rescues from the local shelter with the exception of the youngest one: a pedigree Italian greyhound, bought by you as a gift in the very first week we moved in. I can still remember his arrival very vividly, because I’d just got back from grocery shopping one day and there he was in the kitchen with a huge silk bow round his neck: a graceful, slender, supple little thing with enormous eyes and legs far too long for his tiny body. Looking back on it my reaction to him was actually pretty mortifying, because it was so long since I’d even seen a dog that I reverted into this almost childlike sense of glee and ended up flinging my arms around you then smothering your face with kisses.

“Greyhounds are very affectionate,” I told you later once I’d finally calmed down and the puppy was the one who’d got hyper instead and was attempting to jump on your knee for the third time in a row. “He’s going to want a lot of attention.”

“Well, he has you to provide it for him,” you replied. You were smiling when you said it though, then still reached down straight afterwards so you could stroke the puppy’s ears. His reaction to you was immediate and also rather touching; practically quivering with delight then letting out a series of joyful little yips until you did it again.

“They do that to establish dominance,” I’d said innocently as soon as he took another flying leap towards your knee. “He wants to show you who’s Top Dog.”

“Does he?” You’d paused, then glanced down at the puppy rather doubtfully as if taking in its tiny size. “That’s very ambitious of him.”

“You might want to put down a few boundaries,” I’d added in the same innocent voice. “Y’know – in case he ends up running all over you.”

“I suppose I must admire his determination,” you’d replied, glancing back to where the puppy was starting to forlornly paw your thigh. “What are you going to name him?”

At that point I’d waited a few moments, watching with growing amusement until you finally gave in and lifted him onto your lap so he could cover your hands in tiny licks. “How about Scipio?” I’d said.

“Oh yes, very good – the defeater of Hannibal at Carthage. What a comedian you are.”

“Well to be fair,” I said. “He has kind of got the better of you, hasn’t he?”

In fact, I was a bit of a dick about it and was fully prepared to settle on Scipio until a few days had passed and I’d decided it didn’t really suit him after all so wanted to choose something else instead. My inspiration for Italian names was embarrassing limited to various Ninja Turtles and assorted male acquaintances (and there was no way I was naming him after any of those bastards) but then I remembered your fondness for La Divina Commedia so now his new name is Dante. By this point he’s getting close to fully-grown – although still with all his madcap puppy exuberance – and while it would be impossible for me to ever have a favourite, I know if I did then it would be him simply because he came from you.

As it’s turned out your own attitude towards the dogs is pretty much exactly as predicted; right from suggesting pretentious names for them, which I reject equally quickly (“Hephaistos? My God, are you kidding me?”) to pretending to find them an irritant while clearly doting on them in private. To be honest, it’s fair to say that you’re hardly as enamoured of them as I am, although I still think you enjoy having them around. In your eyes the main point in their favour is that they make me happy, as well as the fact they love me so much, which in your opinion shows good judgement (and which, because they’re not human, they’re allowed to express in passionately enthusiastic ways without you losing your shit). In this respect, you probably would have killed a human intruder – or at the very least seriously considered it – but because this interruption is canine you now content yourself to a tiny long-suffering sigh before wearily getting dressed yourself so you can help me feed them. For some reason you always talk to them in Lithuanian whenever you’re completing this task, and the sight and sound of it never fails to be incredibly endearing.

“You know they’re not human right?” I say now, just like I always do. “You can’t force them to be bilingual.”

Your response, in turn, is to do what you always do: namely to stare at me unblinkingly with your eyebrows raised before turning round to solemnly resume your conversation with the dogs in a way that makes it clear you’re bitching to them about me without it being possible to understand what you’re saying. I know you only do it because of the way it makes me start grinning, but I honestly can’t help it; it’s not just the fact you’re making an effort to engage with them, but because I’m also a bit addicted to these playfully dumb couple’s rituals and can’t ever to seem to quite get enough of them.

I now proceed to lean back against the counter with my arms folded, beaming away like an idiot while you pretend not to notice and begin preparations for our own meal (and which is another thing that’s typical, given that you’ve finally accepted the new house rule which states the dogs always get to eat first). This evening it’s your turn to cook, and you end up going for something that’s become a custom every month or so in terms of an entirely American themed meal. At first I was concerned you were only doing it because you thought I was homesick, but it’s clear by now that you know I’m not – it’s simply because you enjoy finding ways to make me happy. Tonight, the menu is grilled asparagus and blackened fish steaks (Cajun-style, with garlic and oregano fresh from your herb garden), followed by butter sheet cake served in dainty porcelain ramekins (and which you describe as a tarte à la bouilli, but which to me is basically custard pie). In the past I’ve heard British people refer to ‘mutton dressed as lamb’ to indicate inferior objects masquerading as something better, but if applied as a culinary metaphor then your attempts at Creole cuisine are more like mutton dressed as Lamborghini compared to the types of meals my dad would prepare for me growing up. There’s still enough resemblance to the original to make it familiar, yet in your hands is so intensely refined it somehow elevates itself above the source material to become something entirely unique. My favourite so far is the jambalaya, which you brew up with Turkish bay leaves and your own homemade chicken broth, but anything you do is always pretty much perfect.

The fish itself is predictably spicy and delicious and gets eaten at the kitchen table by candlelight, which is how we tend to have most of our meals now. Sometimes you’ll want to indulge in the full formality of the dining room with its elegant ceremonies and elaborate tableware, but most of the time you seem happy to dispense with it in favour of basking in the kitchen’s cosy, informal intimacy instead. As such we end up leaning over the table to feed creamy forkfuls of cake to each other (interspersed with sugary vanilla-flavoured kisses) before leaving all the crockery behind unwashed and simply ambling into the living room so we can slump on the sofa in a tangle of limbs. As part of the Cajun theme you’ve even made me some pecan cookies, and I now happily begin to munch on one, quickly followed by two more (then realise I’ve got the crumbs in your hair so have to spend several minutes picking them out). It’s far too early to go to bed, but already I feel like I want to. Although I suppose there’s no real reason why we shouldn’t – I might suggest it to you later. In this respect my warning about married sex (or lack thereof) has also proven spectacularly misplaced, because if anything we’re even more passionate with each other than we were while merely living together.

Beside me you make a contented noise then brush your lips against my forehead, your breath gently ruffling my hair as I tuck myself even more snugly against you. Your fingers feel almost absurdly sensuous as they stroke my neck; pressed so tightly together it’s obvious you’ve noticed how hard I’m getting. “Beloved,” you murmur, straight into my skin. “What are you thinking of?”

“Mmm, what do you think I’m thinking of?” I smile again then reach round myself to wind my fingers into your own hair. “I’m thinking how much I want to jump you.”

“I beg your pardon?” you say.

This promptly makes me smile even harder: for someone so sophisticated your woeful ignorance of slang never fails to be amusing. “Oh, excuse me,” I reply. “I’m thinking how much I want to have lawfully wedded intercourse with my spectacularly attractive spouse.”

As soon as I’ve said that you start smiling too, because if there’s one thing you absolutely love then it’s hearing me refer to us being married. The context itself doesn’t even matter. Sincere and serious or offhand and flippant, all are guaranteed to make you happy – although the one thing you admittedly seem to like better than anything else is when I do it in front of other people. Only yesterday a guy got in touch to arrange delivering some more materials for the trellis (or the arbor, or whatever) and asked me if I’d be interested in a deal they had on for fencing. ‘Can I call you back?’ I’d asked him. ‘I’ll need to discuss it with my husband first.’ You were stood nearby when I said it and the look of satisfaction on your face was priceless. It made me realise that I really ought to make an effort to let you hear it more often.

“Well, that sounds entirely reasonable,” you now reply, beginning to kiss your way along my jaw. “I’m sure it can be arranged. I propose an early night…although there is something I would like to show you beforehand.”

“Hmm, okay,” I say, tipping my head back to give you better access. I’m already so tired again, which is admittedly pretty feeble. Even so, there’s still something rather enjoyable about it, not least because of the contrast it offers to how I used to feel before: that awful, deadened lethargy which always seemed to surpass normal drowsiness and reach a pitch of fretfully restless exhaustion that excluded actual asleep. “In a minute though,” I add with a contented yawn. “I want to stay here a bit longer.”

You laugh slightly then gently nuzzle my face with yours. “You have two speeds, don’t you beloved? Full throttle or aspiring sloth.”

“Well, you shouldn’t stuff me with so much food,” I say. “I’m in a carb coma.”

“Mano meilė. Where do get these ludicrous expressions?”

“Okay, I have postprandial somnolence. Better?”

“Not particularly,” you reply, beginning to wind a strand of my hair round your finger. “Just because they are ludicrous does not make them unwelcome. They are very you, which is why I like them so much. Very American.”

“And you are very racist,” I say with another huge yawn. “Ipso facto, American equals ludicrous.” This time you neither confirm nor deny, instead merely resuming the series of kisses along my jaw. “You should be grateful to America,” I add, “Seeing how you’re now taking refuge behind our Fifth Amendment. And speaking of which…”

“Of what?” you ask, shifting round to begin kissing my ear instead. “America in general, or the Fifth Amendment in particular?”

“Both, I suppose. I had an email from Clarice.”

“And what did she have to say?” There’s a tickling sensation behind my ear (a sure sign you’re tugging at one of the curls just so you can watch it bounce into shape again once you let it go) before you add rather sardonically: “I hope it was to confirm your Uncle Jack carried out his threat of naming a lecture theatre after you.”

“Oh come on,” I say, equal parts amused and annoyed. “Seriously?”

“Indeed, I am entirely serious.” Having reached the outer limits of my ear you now reverse again and begin working your way back down my jaw. “I like the idea very much: the paradox of it pleases me. Such an apt dichotomy of the moral and the immoral; of the very good and the very bad. It’s an appropriate legacy for you, my love. It captures your complexity.” You sigh again then briefly fall silent, eyes closed as if privately relishing the image of it. “That beautiful face with crimson splashes of blood, fiercely resilient and always resolute. Ecstasy and agony. Triumphant. ‘William,’ from the Old German Wilhelm…a war deity and warrior. And the name of artists and wordsmiths and kings – of Blake and Shakespeare and William the Conqueror – but you most of all, who manages to be infinitely more fascinating than any of the others.”

“Well, she didn’t mention it,” I reply, struggling with a sudden urge to laugh. You’re always so fulsome: I honestly don’t know how you manage it. “From the way I reacted she probably thinks I don’t want to know. I guess I could ask her though – if you’re interested.”

“Yes, do.” You pause again then give a rather eerie little smile. “Only imagine if he asked you to come and officiate its opening.”

“He won’t,” I say firmly.

“He might. Not that it’s worth our while to speculate, I suppose – you can cross that bridge when you come to it.”

“I’d rather jump off the bridge.”

“You are too premature, beloved. After all, just imagine how cross you’d be while you were doing it. You love being cross: I think you would enjoy yourself immensely.”

“Oh shut up,” I say, giving your arm an affectionate shove. In fact, a part of me is already squirming at the idea of Jack actually going through with this, although I suppose you’re right and it’s ultimately a problem for my future self to deal with (in this respect I have a tendency to defer quite a lot of problems for my future self…no wonder it hates me).

“Anyway,” I say briskly, as a sign that the subject has officially been changed. “She was writing to tell me they’re working on a new case. A big one.”

“Aren’t they all. A serial killer, I suppose?”

“Of course,” I reply. “Although this one admittedly sounds quite…extreme. All the victims were found with their skin removed. I mean, we’re talking actual honest-to-God flaying. The press is already calling him Buffalo Bill.”

“They do so love their non-de-plumes,” you say with amusement. “Theatrical. Suitably alliterative.” You wait a few moments then lean forward to nuzzle my hair again. “You sound rather intrigued, my love. Are you?”

I nuzzle you back then promptly bury my face in your neck so you can’t see the way I’m starting to blush at being so predictable. “Maybe a little,” I mutter.

“Of course you are,” you reply with obvious fondness. “How could you be anything else? Truly, beloved, you have such a unique and delightful mind. It’s mesmerizing: I wish to examine it from all angles and in all possible conditions.”

“Mmm, believe it or not I’d kind of picked up on that already.”

“I often used to think that in the old days,” you add almost dreamily. “Watching the way you’d tear yourself into tatters…it was a great shame no means existed of levering your skull open to inspect the various thoughts and impulses existing in it. A chance to sort through skeins of nerves and tissue like a jeweller categorising precious gems.”

“Oh Jesus, enough,” I say. “I can’t take much more romanticism.”

“But it’s true,” you reply in an innocent voice. “I had a constant sense of regret to be denied the opportunity. I would have been so gentle, beloved – I only wished to know you better. To possess you so completely it dismantled and remade you.”

I lean over and give you a deliberate prod. “Well, you should be careful what you wish for, shouldn’t you?” I say. “Just look at you now – your possession has left you stuck in the middle of nowhere surrounded by mud and dog hair.”

“Yes, indeed: I am submerged in both these things.” You give another of your more Sphinxy smiles then resettle yourself on the sofa so you can start kissing your way up my jaw again. “Nevertheless, if you did ever want to arrange a brief return to America to assist her…well, I’m sure it could be arranged.”

You sound so incredibly pleased with yourself that I find myself laughing out loud before the full reality of it finally hits me and I end up falling silent again, visibly growing more serious as I slide my hand away from your hair to gently cradle your cheek instead. “God, you really mean it don’t you?” I say. “We’ve got a bit of security at last, and you want to go straight back into the eye of the storm.”

My voice carries a note of weary stoicism that’s kind but firm – the sort of tone I might use with the dogs – and which I’m entirely aware of doing on purpose, simply because I get such a kick out of the fact you’d never tolerate being spoken to that way by anyone else except me. Right on cue you now give a long, slow smile then glance up at me from beneath your eyelashes.

“I wouldn’t express it in quite those terms,” you reply. Your tone is notably smug and immediately proves that my attempts to lecture you have (as usual) bounced off without any obvious effect. “But I liked your Agent Starling quite a bit; she is a person of unusual perception. I like the sense of purpose and comfort she gave you – and I like seeing you cross wits with a challenging adversary. Although who knows, perhaps he’s yet another one who would develop a certain fascination with you? All these degenerates, Will: you’re like catnip for them aren’t you. How do you manage to attract such very sinister suitors?”

“You mean like you?” I ask, trying not to roll my eyes. Of course what’s unspoken (yet entirely obvious) is that you want another opportunity to fuck with Jack, but in the end I just smile again then press another kiss to the side of your cheek. Admittedly the case does sound interesting – extremely so – but what’s absorbing me most of all is how different our attitudes are towards it compared to how things were before. There’s something so liberating about you encouraging me to explore this more ethical aspect of myself, completely free of any sense of anger or resentment because you’re finally content in the knowledge that my first loyalty will always be to you. And in turn, I can’t deny there’s something incredibly appealing about the image of it: hiding out in Baltimore, with a chance for me to see Clarice again while you and I delve into the details behind the scenes to solve the case in secret. Even my wildest flights of imagination can’t quite go so far as Clarice seeing us together and accepting it, but in general the whole scheme has a thrilling air of daring that’s hard not to be tempted by, even though I know I shouldn’t. I guess it’s always been that way, hasn’t it? I mark out my boundaries with painstaking care while you just lounge around on the opposite side, whispering in my ear then watching and waiting until I finally break them one after another, all the time still clutching to my tattered little phantoms of morality.

“I suppose Freddie Lounds will be pleased,” you say tactfully once it’s obvious I’m not ready to reply. “At least it will provide a distraction from us. And her readership will certainly be grateful: finally, something new from a steady diet of dramatic articles full of adjectives and bad grammar about how I tried to kill you again.”

“Have you checked it recently?”

“No,” you reply. “I have no interest at all in what she thinks.” You glance down at me then immediately start to smirk. “It would appear that the same cannot be said of you.”

I smirk back then start kissing your throat again to distract you, because of course the truth is that I have checked. Admittedly it’s not like I care that much either, but if I’m honest I think I just like the contrast; the way things are so different now compared to those lonely, hopeless days of trolling the Tattlecrime when I still didn’t know where you were or if you were ever coming back. In this respect the Virtual Grahams were also still out in full force, and it was unexpectedly comforting to realise it: like a vast, invisible army of unknown allies, all working away in the world on my behalf.

“Speaking of unsolved crimes…” I now add. As I’m speaking I take hold of your hand, delicately kissing the tip of each finger one after the other. “Why don’t we go to Rome this Friday? Enzo D’Amico is going to be there for the economics summit. Do you remember – that banker I told you about?”

Almost immediately your eyes begin to gleam. “I remember,” you say.

“Apparently he always stays at the Hotel de Russie…”

“He has commendable taste.”

“…and aways requests a drive to the Poppea Club while his wife is in the spa. So far, so predictable.” I pause very briefly, gently sucking on your index finger then swirling my tongue across the pad. “But if someone were to distract the chauffeur….”

“Oh yes,” you say. “Someone might very well do that.”

“…Then it might turn out to be quite an eventful weekend.”

“Yes it might,” you say, beginning to delicately untuck my shirt from my jeans. “It’s an itinerary precisely planned to appeal. You’re still quite the fisherman, aren’t you my love – always selecting the most suitable bait. Even so, while it would appear Saturday is accounted for I do find that a little variety in one’s amusements never goes amiss.”

“I guess not,” I say, arching rather luxuriously into your touch. “Did you have anything particular in mind?”

“Indeed I do – I want to take you to the Teatro dell’Opera. Directly afterwards, perhaps: to celebrate our success. And as an added incentive, my patience has been rewarded because I have managed to secure a private box for us to use for the season.”

“Hmm, a private box,” I repeat. “Is that your way of telling me you want us to bang during the performance?”

“I’m afraid I am unfamiliar with the verb ‘to bang’.” Having finished untucking my shirt you now bury your way underneath it until firm, warm palms are starting to smooth their way across bare skin. “But I can guess your meaning – and I said no such thing.”

“Then I’ll say it for you. Anyway, you might not have a choice: you know I can never resist you in a suit.” I smile to myself then run my finger down your cheekbone. “I can never resist you at all.”

“Is that so? Then it’s very fortunate for you that resistance is not required.”

“I know,” I say. “When did you become so easy? I married a man of loose virtue and low morals.”

“In response to your first question: upon meeting you.” You wait a few moments then give the most godawful smirk. “And in terms of the second – apparently so.”

“Apparently so. And speaking of which, weren’t we going to have an early night?” I hesitate then glance down at my watch: it’s not even 9.30. “A very early night. Or no, didn’t you want to show me something first?”

“I do; although I’m afraid it will require going outside.”

“O-h-h,” I reply. “Okay then.” I’m trying not to sound too long-suffering about it but I’m not sure how successful is (it’s not): an observer would think you’d just asked me to hike overland to India as opposed to hauling my lazy ass several metres beyond the front door. “I needed to go out anyway,” I add, attempting to rally a bit. “I left my toolbox in the yard. I’ll have to bring it in.”

“You could just as well leave it out – there’s no rain forecast.” You pause then give me a rather fond look. “I assume you are planning to be outdoors all day tomorrow as well?”

“Yes, pretty much.”

“You know, I was remiss with that particular prediction,” you reply in a thoughtful voice. “I should never have expected you to grow so fond of gardening, yet here you are. It’s rather philosophical of you, beloved; at least if viewed in a certain light. A space for regeneration: of decay and renewal. The giving and taking of life.”

“Hmm,” I say, pretending to consider this. “Well, I don’t want to be rude…”

“On the contrary, you horror: I think you would very much enjoy being rude.”

“I don’t want to be rude,” I repeat with another grin. “But is there even a slight chance you’re overthinking that analogy?” Naturally your only response to this is a faint smirk, clearly suggestive of the utter impossibility of you ever overthinking anything. “Well, on the plus side,” I add, struggling with a renewed urge to laugh, “by the end of the week I’ll have finished your arbor. Actually, I forgot to ask – did you have a chance to buy those decking screws I wanted?”

“Regrettably, no,” you say. “Sabini’s didn’t stock the right length.” I give a distinctly theatrical sigh and you smirk again then make a pretence of ruffling my hair. “I was planning to seek them out further afield tomorrow. And you’ll at least you have the satisfaction of knowing I’ll be punished for it, because I shall have to drive that appalling car of yours.”

I narrow my eyes at you from beneath my hair. “Did you just diss my car?”

“I did indeed,” you say briskly. “It runs like a horse with its legs tied together.”

“It does not.”

“I’m afraid I have to contradict you there, beloved; if you had any mercy in you at all then you’d have put it out of its misery by now.”

“Well, you could always just get a cab,” I say with amusement. “Seeing how it’s not good enough for you. Anyway, I thought yours would be ready to pick up in the morning?”

“So did I,” you reply. “Only it turns out the parts required are still unavailable. It’s tedious, but unfortunately inevitable – one of several hazards of driving a vintage car.”

“I mean, I did warn you,” I say. I sound almost as smug as you now, but I can’t really help it because I did warn you (using, I believe, an admittedly unfortunate metaphor involving an organ donation scheme). “They’ll probably have to send to Germany for them.”

“Austria, to be precise.”

“Hmm,” I say, then repeat the I told you so glance; not least because it’s actually pretty rare to be able to tell you anything and it seems a shame not to make the most of the opportunity while I’ve got the chance. “That means we’ll have to take mine to Rome instead.”

At the thought of this you give a little wince of distaste (which was expected) although also don’t suggest postponing the trip (which was not), and overall suggests that you’re far more enthusiastic about going than I even gave you credit for. In this respect it seems your initial offer of “Fuck the Rudes, now I have a husband (mongoose/shrew/boy/whore) instead” was entirely sincere, because despite me not asking you to give it up there’s no denying you’re far more mellow now than you ever used to be in the past. Although having said that you’re undoubtedly still you, so perhaps it’s not surprising that you’d still rather drive my Public Mortification Mobile to go on a hunt than to not go at all.

As I’m thinking this you continue to sit there smiling at me, and the general look of you is so sultry and mischievous that I promptly start smiling too before obediently heaving myself off the sofa to take hold of your hand so you can lead me into the garden. It’s approaching twilight by now, which I think is one of my favourite times since living here; just a soft buttery glow bathing everything in streaks of pinkish gold, with nothing to break the silence beyond a sleepy rustle of leaves or the occasional hum of bees returning from their final forage of the day. I should maybe build us a beehive, shouldn’t I? Yeah, maybe I should do that: it’s not too difficult and there’re so many flowers round here that a colony would establish itself in no time. There’d be a peaceful sense of novelty to it, and I think you’d enjoy using honey that I’d collected myself…

The entire time you’re still holding onto my hand, so I now give yours a squeeze in return then turn round again to smile at you. Behind us the house seems as if it’s slumbering in the evening sun, the reflection glancing off the bricks at certain angles to turn them the same pale yellow as Labrador puppies. At moments like this the mere sight of it is enough to make me happy, simply because it’s so secure and safe and beautiful, and – most importantly of all – it’s ours.

As you carry on smiling at me I now find myself hesitating slightly, hand still gripped tightly in yours as my eyes drift upwards to the second storey window. There’s a faint gleaming through the glass, and I already know it’s from where the sun is catching the kintsugi I gave you on the first day we moved in. Of course, that means it’s also been there for a while, yet even now I still always like to look at it; it’s as if my eyes will automatically stray in its direction whenever I’m close by. Sometimes I’ll even just wander into your study to view it in person (never bothering to knock, because you’ve made it so clear that you prefer it when I simply walk in). In fact, that’s probably become part of the pleasure of visiting it: the total certainty that my presence is never an irritant and your welcome will always be unreserved.

The kintsugi itself is a teacup (of course) and I made it myself from a piece of vintage Doccia that cost every last cent from selling the Locard books; smashed into careful shards with a little hammer, then lovingly reassembled with golden lacquer one piece at a time. It’s extremely rare for me to ever see you as visibly moved as you were when you took it out of its box: for a few surreal seconds, I actually thought you might cry. ‘Should time reverse,’ you’d said very quietly. ‘And teacups come together…’ You were gazing at the kintsugi as you were speaking and when you finally glanced up again I could see the extent of the emotion on your face. It’s likely you were thinking about your sister – possibly Abigail – but there was no doubt that the full extent of your focus was on me. ‘There is no attempt to hide the damage’ you’d quoted softly. ‘The repair is literally illuminated. You see, beloved? Sometimes it’s possible to break something and make it even more beautiful.’ I remember you spent nearly the entire evening tenderly holding onto it, but today you keep it on the windowsill of your study because you say you like it to be the first thing you see when you walk down the driveway: a lasting reminder of what we’ve managed to make together.

“I love you,” I say quietly and immediately feel you tighten your grip on my hand. In the past you used to remark on these announcements, but now you’ll accept them in contented silence because the commentary is no longer needed. It isn’t a rarity in the way it once was, is it? Now I say it all the time. “So go on then,” I add. “What do you want to show me?”

“It’s around the side of the house,” you say, only this time I find myself simply gazing at you instead of replying. This shadowy half-light really suits you, I think: somehow making you look even taller and broader while highlighting all the planes and angles of your face in a way that showcases your sinister glamor to perfection. To be honest it’s enough to make me want to shove you up against the wall, although I suppose we’re going to bed soon anyway and as a location that’s undeniably more appealing. Ultimately I just give your hand another squeeze then gently stroke my thumb across your knuckles.

“You know, you’ve really built this up now,” I say. “I hope it’s…” But then before I’ve even had a chance to describe what I’m hoping for we’ve turned the corner and I can see for myself: an enormous Thruxton motorbike, black and glossy as a panther and gleaming slightly in the last of the sun with a haze of metal and chrome.

“Oh God,” I say, beginning to laugh. “You didn’t.”

“Yet I did,” you reply.

You look so colossally pleased with yourself that I start to laugh again before leaning up to plant a kiss on the side of your cheek. You smile too, neatly positioning yourself behind me so you can wrap both arms around my chest while your face presses snugly against mine. In fact, I’m already starting to remember the first time the subject came up, and it now feels deeply uncomfortable to realise how awkward I must have seemed when you mentioned it. How hard it was to admit that I found the thought of you riding it attractive. Or how I didn’t want to ride it with you because the image of sitting behind you and clinging on seemed demeaning. There’s almost something sad about it, really: the number of limits I was imposing on myself from a sense of pride and self-preservation that was always entirely misplaced.

I now twist round slightly in your arms so I can nudge your forehead with mine. “You better get the full leather outfit,” I say. “I’m serious: consider this an official warning. Don’t make me end up having to buy it for you.”

“Would that be so bad?” you reply, gently nudging me back. “You have excellent taste.”

“Hmm, maybe,” I say. “But I assume the main purchasing principles should be safety and comfort – not what you think your husband would look most hot in.”

You promptly look so happy I find myself smiling all over again like an idiot before putting my hand over yours. “Do you think we can get as far as Rome on that?” I ask.

“That was the general idea.”

“No luggage?”

“No need. I shall buy you anything you require when we get there.”

“Then it sounds like we’ve got a plan,” I say. “The dogs will be okay for a couple of nights. I’ll arrange for that service in Ciampino to send a sitter.”

“You’re sure?” you ask rather doubtfully. “You won’t miss them too much?”

I consider this for a few seconds then give you another nudge. “Yeah,” I say. “I will. But they’ll be well looked after. Besides, the main thing is that you’ll be there.”

The look of pleasure on your face when you hear that is undeniable: even with non-human rivals, nothing ever seems to give you greater satisfaction than having proof that I need you more than anything else. At the sight of it I start smiling again too, then finally let go of you for long enough to walk over and inspect the bike more closely. As a piece of design, it’s genuinely rather stunning: sleekly compact, and almost muscular in how study it is. I can’t believe I didn’t have the sense to encourage you to get one before.

“I’ve never actually ridden one of these,” I say now, running an admiring hand along the fender. “Not even as a passenger. It’s a long way to Rome: I’ll probably need a few test-drives to get used to it.”

“Of course,” you reply. “I would have recommended the same myself. It can feel rather disorientating to begin with.”

“That’s okay,” I say. “I can hold on.”

This immediately makes you start smiling yourself. “You’ll need to practice leaning into me,” is all you say. “It’s important for our movements to be synchronised.”

“Sounds good,” I reply. “That’s not generally something we have much trouble with.”

As I watch your smile begins to soften and turn into something deeply tender and reflective. “No, indeed not,” you say. “And rest assured, my caution shall be excessive. I will be mindful of having an extremely precious cargo.” You give me another smile, and as I smile back you suddenly take a step forward then hold out your hand. “So, how about it,” you say. “An impromptu lesson right now?”

I laugh again then glance down rather uncertainly at the bike – at the sheer size and power of it – trying to imagine what it might be like to sit on the pillion and place myself so utterly in your care. It would require absolute confidence to allow it: almost a leap of faith. That I could take life and limb and pass them to you for safekeeping, knowing that you’ll protect both of them just as thoroughly as you would your own. Possibly you can guess what I’m thinking because you now take another step closer, your expression about as tender as I’ve possibly ever seen it.

“Trust me?” you ask with another smile.

Immediately I smile back as I catch your eye. Reach out. Take your hand.

“I trust you,” I say. “Always.”