"Callum," Paul said, one night, lying there in the fields behind what was Wilby, "Why haven't I met any of your other boyfriends?"
Callum just waved a hand and carried on looking up at the stars.
"I mean, I know there's Hugh, but," Paul paused, searching for the right words, somehow it was so much simpler when he was writing songs, though that might be because songs never get offended when you screw up, "You're a fucking beautiful guy and a fucking beautiful fuck, and you're sure as fuck not all fucking chaste and fucking virginial"
"Paul, are you trying to channel Hugh, 'cause if you are, you've missed a 'fuck' in there." Callum was so laid back about it all, all don't-ask-don't-tell, but he told alright, if you told him you knew. Paul knew Molly knew, hell, he suspected Martha knew... maybe she even approved, at least this time it was with somebody who might have some idea how much they stood to loose.
"Callum, just answer the fucking question, or I'll never give you a cigarette again."
"What, not even after I'm a fucking beautiful fuck?"
"Callum..." Sure, Callum was a beautiful fuck, but Paul couldn't decide whether he hated or loved the way Callum made him work for everything.
"I'm a serial killer, okay?"
Paul paused for a moment, "What does Hugh think?"
"Think's it's fucking rock and roll," says Callum, like it's the most natural thing in the world, and maybe, for him it is Paul thinks as he angles his head to the side to watch the words come forth from his lips, "he also made me swear not to kill him before he let me near him again."
Callum holds his hand out for a cigarette, Paul lights one between his lips and passes it over, and Paul watches as the smoke billows up like some strange flower into the sky.
"Yeah man," Callum breathed his voice as soft as smoke and as deadly.
"Promise not to kill me."
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