He was like the only splash of color in a black-and-white photograph.

This is our second fancy dress party. Apparently they have one a week. For the first one, Daniel somehow managed to convince me to go as Spiderman . Yeah, you got it: tight, and I do mean tight, look-at-me electric-blue spandex that left absolutely nothing to the imagination... and you should try taking a leak while wearing one of those suits. I have a whole new respect for superheroes.

Oh yeah, that's it, swelling to twice my normal length and width—Jeez, maybe I am related to Stretch Armstrong. Throbbing like I've just been hit by a hammer. (Do not try that one at home, kiddies. That happened to me once, and Jonny assures me it was an accident….)

By the looks of the sky it was just before dawn; wispy strands of lilac and gold were beginning to break the blue-gray curtain of night. I loved the rising and setting of the sun in this sunburnt land. They seemed to trumpet the arrival and departure of the day; at their peak the colors were bold and vivid, rarely wishy-washy pastels, and as strong as the harsh landscape with which they were joined. Purples, reds, oranges, and gold would compete for dominance like a bird showing off its plumage. No one was about, so I let myself into the clinic with the key the RFDS has issued to me prior to our visit and retrieved what I needed—my bag, some breakfast items, tea bags, and juice. By the time I was organized and making my way back to Tommy and Daisy, dawn was in full regalia and I had to stop for a moment and admire the display—Mother Nature was such a show-off.

“Mom, loving Liam feels right. It’s so easy.” I paused, struggling to find an analogy that would make her understand. “It’s like breathing air: it’s effortless, you don’t have to think about it or try, you just do it, and yet at the same time it’s absolutely necessary.”

When the credits for Written in the Stars began to roll, Declan sighed, licked his fingers, then turned to me. “You should apply to go on the show, Sebastian.” I snorted. “Um, one small problem with that. I’m gay.” “Well, duh!” “So why would I go on then? They pair off guys and girls. Not guys and guys. And before you ask, no, I won’t dress up in drag for your viewing pleasure again. Even best friends only get to play that card once, and you’ve used yours.”

Truth be told, had he given me an hour to loosen my tie, sink a beer, and leave my work day behind, it would probably have been me suggesting a bit of time in the playroom. After the week I’d had, I could have done with some stress relief and having someone else take charge for a change. But he hadn’t. And so now there would be no playtime. Not in the playroom, and most definitely not in our front foyer. The foyer. Therein lay our problem. My problem.

WHENEVER I get in a lift I always have an almost-impossible-to-ignore urge to say or do something inappropriate. It happens every single time. That is so not great considering I work on the twentieth floor of a highrise in the heart of Sydney. Think about it. Including leaving the building for lunch, it means I use the lift a minimum of four times per day. So that’s at least twenty times per week I’m tempted to say or do something that could well be career suicide.

Me and enthusiasm didn’t seem to be on speaking terms anymore. All the color had seeped out of my life. I was living a monochromatic, black-and-white photograph of a life where everything was a shade of tedious.

It might be the beginning of summer, but his hair is autumn. It’s a riot of reds and browns, with the odd bit of gold that glints when he passes directly under one of the bar lights. Unlike most redheads, though, there’s not a freckle to be found on his beautiful face.

No, Finn’s only criteria seemed to be that his guys be prepared to be on the receiving end of his prowess. Not that I’d ever heard a complaint about that. Quite the opposite—I was beginning to believe he was the patron saint of bottoms. Yep. Ireland had Saint Patrick and the gay men of Portsmouth had Finn.

Please believe me, you pair are just too good to be true, I silently ad-lib to the song, Please forgive me, I can’t stop watching you. I can’t help raising my eyes to the ceiling, certain that either Bryan Adams or God is going to strike me with a bolt of lightning and turn me into a pile of ash for my sacrilegious bastardizing of Bryan’s song.

I watched as he walked over to the tractor, where he placed my tablet on the seat before reaching behind and extracting a coil of rope. The old, familiar yearning of my youth swelled in my gut—at thirty-eight he still walked with the grace and assurance of the athlete I knew he’d once been. Some of the running and high jump records he’d set at the district high school still stood.