It was excruciating how Julian poisoned his contempt with affection. The way Julian pronounced his nickname felt like a sharp kiss before pushing him away.

“Julian?” “Don’t be boring.”

Julian always took the notes away by the next morning, as if he knew Paul might not be able to resist keeping them.

When his grandparents had drifted back out of earshot, Julian caught Paul’s eye and smiled—his real smile, sly and electric.

They could have a few happy moments together now, so long as both of them agreed not to talk about anything that mattered.

They talked on the phone late into the night and hid notes in each other’s pockets like lovesick children; whenever they reached an empty stretch of sidewalk they drew together to hold hands, reflexively synchronized.

All they were—all they had ever been—was a pair of sunflowers who each believed the other was the sun.

“All I want to do is make you happy, and you’re the unhappiest person I’ve ever met.”

When Julian looked up and smiled, there was a shade of sadness in his face that Paul found almost frightening. But his voice was easy and fond, and when he brushed his fingertips along Paul’s forearm, it felt as intimate as a kiss.

Paul thought, for a moment, that Julian was reaching across the table to take his hand.

“I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you,” he said, and for a moment Paul couldn’t imagine, much less remember, that anything in the world existed outside the two of them.

Sometimes, he wrote, I feel like what you’re really hiding is that you’re sick of me.

What was important was that for all his newfound gentleness, Julian could still look at Paul as if there were something elusive inside him—something he wanted but couldn’t quite reach.

Julian Fromme smiled when he caught Paul’s eye

“I don’t know how I can be the first person to notice how twisted you are.” Julian smiled coolly as he spoke. “You’re the only one who’s never wanted me not to be.”

“I love you,” he said, and once he’d spoken, the words took hold of his tongue like a prayer. Julian pulled him nearer, but he didn’t dare open his eyes. I love you. I love you. I love you.

Instead they told each other the things they dreamed when they were awake. How they would never be apart, how they would take care of one another.

There was an envelope waiting on the dining table, propped up against a drinking glass to ensure it would be seen.

Paul thought, for a moment, that Julian was reaching across the table to take his hand.

“I don’t know if I want them to understand me,” Paul answered, and he felt a little less powerless when he saw the falter in Julian’s smile.