“No you’re not. There’s nothing of you. Every time I look at you I think someone ought to feed you up.”
Daniel grins crookedly. “That’s all right, then. You just did.”
“Yeah, right. Couple of bloody poppadoms and a forkful of korma. Keep you going for weeks, that will.”
“Sod off.”
“I mean it,” Rob continues, and Daniel realizes the wine bottle’s empty and he’s only had a glass and a half. He doesn’t drink much, never has more than a couple. Last thing he needs is to make himself even more vulnerable. “You need someone to look after you. Make you realize how special you are. ‘Cause you are, you know? You’re f*****g special. Beautiful, that’s what you are.” Rob’s other hand comes up to stroke Daniel’s face. It feels rough, and hard, and unbearably gentle, and something inside Daniel dies
