WORDS

[fahye]

"You look just as pipe as I do," Dom says, "if we're pointing fingers."

"These are the only clothes I have," Julian says, defensive now. Uncertain. He crosses his ankles, uncrosses them, crosses them the other way, as though too conscious of his own limbs.

"Are you expecting me to suggest that you sell them?" Dom says. "Or burn them? That waistcoat is by Duncan Armitage."

Julian looks down at at it the gorgeous line of his own chest; runs his fingers across the intricate intercut silks in peacock blues, the watery brilliance of the overlaid stitching. It's a work of art. Dom has been stopping himself from touching it all day.

"Who?" Julian says, and Dominic could cry, he really could.

I am forcing myself to write a (very) few words every day, and I think my mental health is a lot better for it.

This music, by the way, is perfect to write to. Sublime. My brother thinks I am mad for not preferring the first movement to the second, but our relationship is built on arguments about things like this and I wouldn't have it any other way,