Subject: 5

“Listen. I wanna talk about your lover.” It would be easier to quote the lyrics of their song to calm his sobbing friend down. “She was his wife and they were his kids.” He waited patiently for his words to sink into the delicate (sometimes naïve) self of his blonde-haired friend.

“What?”

“Finally,” he sighed – got a poke in the ribs. “Listen, before considering castration on your friend to which I do think you are considering about it now – " he held his friend away who was frantically trying to scratch his face for a reason or two – “I did not do anything to your –" he spat in disgust at his own past memory which resurfaced at the word – “daddy…oh –" he started cursing under his breath, realising his friend was – still trying not to cause a commotion - stifling his screams of protests from his forced-pursed lips. “My bad, my bad..” only Johannes Emersson could make him smile and drop his mask.

Seeing his friend smiled, Hans stopped, composed himself, arms akimbo, he managed a weak grin. “Since when did you learn to talk like that,” he echoed his own statement which was once filled with sarcasm when he treated Andy as an academic rival in school hearing rumours of Andy’s “alley” upbringing.

“Watch your stick, brother.” Andy echoed back his first retort when they were in elementary school, a reply he had learnt from his siblings of almost fifteen years apart. He had removed much of his wall. It had been so long since they had met and he was afraid of showing himself – even to his only friend.

The air around Hans started to get smoky as he valiantly tried to hide his tears. “Welcome home.”

“It’s great to be back, my love.”

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Andy could not stay long as he didn’t belong to the university campus itself. “Admin,” he shrugged, trying not to curse in front of Hans of whom his best friend got the “education” from. “Save your tears for the one you love,” he smiled.

“Cut it.” Tears were streaming from his cheeks.

He could not touch his blonde-hair friend. It would be too much for the both of them. You still need lotsa lovin’…he once sang to him. “Turn,” his voice lowered but firm, choking back his own tears, “and go talk to him. He’s waiting for you.

In the room where you used to be.”