The Loner

      Over his head, his hand reaches out for Jim’s and for a moment it’s tense  –  his fingers gripping tight on Jim’s. He can’t get his head around of what prompted him to take such action                            – so he releases, and puts on faint smile                            as an offer of amend.

‘ ––can you imagine, Jim ? James and William; that sounds like a soap my nanny would die to watch. ’

            “Oh, I’ve no doubt of that, old boy.”

Jim speaks very quietly, somewhat surprised by the sudden touch of Bill’s fingers to his own, but he is pleased at the attention, and is almost dis- appointed - though by no means surprised -  when Bill lets him go.

         “Bill and James sounds a slight worse. 

‘––there’s my father, my mother when she’s displeased and disappointed which is ALWAYS, the old headmaster, and Ann when she’s–– nevermind. If you’re thinking of calling me by that ridiculous name I don’t know if we can live together anymore. ’                  no, he’s not being dramatic at all.  

Jim chuckles quietly, taking a few steps forwards and leaning slightly, reaching out and, in a quietly affectionate manner, curling his fingers through Bill’s hair. He doesn’t grip at the locks, and nor does he really ruffle them: he simply enjoys the softness of them under his fingers,  breathes in the scent of Bill’s extortionately priced shampoo. 

It’s sentimental, he guesses, but Jim’s earned his right to be sentimental. Even when Bill mentions ANN - or, well. Especially.

        “Oh, no, old boy.

                      “Does ANYONE call you William, Bill?”

   ‘ INSUFFERABLE OLD BOY ? That’s a rather          interesting taste in men you have there. ’

With that, he leans closer toward Jim – close enough to hear Jim’s breathing and almost feel it touch upon his face. A hand cups the other’s face but he doesn’t lean in for a kiss – just yet. Instead, he nods at Jim’s sudden declaration – not in the least surprised.  

     ‘ ––- then show me, Jim. How much you love me. After all,          actions speak louder than words. ’

Jim slowly inhales as the other man leans in towards him, and despite himself he leans into Bill’s touch, pressing his face against the palm. He lets his eyes close for just a moment, and then he looks at Bill properly again, pressing his lips together. 

       “I don’t want to show you I love you, Bill.                              I want you to stop touching my bloody flowers.”

At Jim’s threat, which Bill knows is only a temporary display of force, Bill cannot help but smile. No teeth, but lips pursed and his dimples visible.

‘ ––- then it’ll be our - what - hundredth collaboration ? ’

Including the art of lovemaking. Mostly the art of lovemaking.

‘ We’ll be like Warhol and Basquiat ! ’                            –– But with more sexual tension.

---

Jim isn’t actually sure who Basquiat is. No doubt Bill has indeed informed him at what time or another, and he’s definitely a  contemporary of Andy Warhol’s, but Jim doesn’t know any detail about him other than that: nonetheless he does know that when Bill smiles like that, so warmly and perfectly and charmingly, Jim feels any resolve to be angry at him quite melt away.

          “Stop it. Stop being charming.                             I mean it, Bill, I shan’t be charmed.”

Except that he is. Woefully and completely, as per their usual rhythm.  He does his best to stop himself from grinning right back,   and says, almost reluctantly, 

He finds Jim’s statement ridiculous; if anything Jim should be the one to blame for – with his flowers and dogs; they’ve always irritated Bill whether it be up his nostril or his nerve. And so he retorts with his own ridiculous statement.

‘ There’s a high possibility that mine are too. They tend to teleport to the washing machine and then magically appear back in my wardrobe the very next day. ’

      “They don’t teleport, Bill.   I put them there. 

           So they can be washed. Which I also do.                          So they can be hung out on the line. Which I also do.”

He breathes in through his nose, turning his head away for a moment and catching both his breath and his patience before meeting Bill’s gaze again. 

     “Don’t rearrange my flowers.                       I’ll start adding things to your artwork, Bill,”

He won’t. The threat’s as empty as the bloody laundry bin.

                    “I really will!”

 –––––- e.g. if I can recall correctly, I was participating               in one art of lovemaking yesterday. Thus the              abandoned trousers in the middle of the room.  ’

---

        “Firstly, it was hardly art. You sneezed twice.                              Secondly, DARLING,” 

Particular emphasis is placed upon the word, and he even mocks Bill’s high class accent in his enunciation.       

Mind you, I do have something what others refer to   as artistic talent; comes naturally, you see.  ’

        “Do you really?                   Do you know, Bill, old boy, I hadn’t noticed.

         “the tragedy is that most of them are from the government.”

Yeah. Definitely one of Bill’s. 

          “Bill Haydon.                         Glasses and a smirk             - thinks he owns half of England, and acts like it.”

 ---

          “Sorry, are you one of Bill’s friends?

jim prideaux: god isn't he the most fucking fabulous bloke you've ever met, though

george smiley: no, i think he's a pillock. flash bastard, but a pillock.

jim prideaux: i'm going to shag him

george smiley: that's what my wife said. his cousin, incidentally

jim prideaux: i'm going to MARRY him

george smiley: seems unlikely

jim prideaux: I'M IN LOVE

  “ I’ve noticed ––- and I’ve also noticed you     don’t like it when I rearrange the flowers. ”

---

         “Well, no, I don’t.”

            “Yeah, Bill. They’re flowers.