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N ever had the sound of silence scraped on his nerves like fingernails on chalkboards.

Usually, it was a soothing dimension of nothingness Timi floated in.

Where he didn't have to be anything or anyone.

Just matter existing beyond time and space.

Now, the silence spun around and within him, its newly formed spikes brushing against his frayed nerves.

Things weren't exactly different. On their way home after suffering a mouth diarrhoea, he'd thrown a quick apology that Alex acknowledged with a nod and asked for the rest of the day off. Timi then informed him to resume in the house the next day with a full report on Operation Fish Out .

Alex did, and Timi was officially introduced to the name Triple T, which he'd heard Alex call a few times during some phone calls.

Apparently, it took a lot of stalking to get a physical address for Sporax Media, and Triple T was into that stuff.

However, they reached a roadblock when their latest stake-out led to another stop for dropping off physical evidence.

“This Sporax isn't a random person,” Alex said. “There's a sophistication in the way they gather physical proof. But we're close. Triple T has his eyes set on a dispatch rider that seems to be a regular for picking and dropping off evidence. He might lead us to something concrete.”

He'd listened to pick out something different in the way Alex related with him, but he spoke with his usual all-hands-on-deck briskness.

Timi thanked him for the job so far and brought up the idea of using Triple T briefly for something else. “We'll be heading to Agu's in a few days. Maybe he'll be a better option for Operation Swap .”

“Has Barrister finished with the alterations?” Alex asked.

“Almost,” he replied. “When you report to Agu, make sure you tell him how grouchy I was reading the agreement.”

“Can I have today off too?”

Heart sinking, he had nodded his permission.

Their interactions may not have changed, but something was different. Perhaps, it was Alex who could no longer bear Timi's presence and needed time to himself to refuel. Or it was Timi who found it difficult to be anything but a giant bundle of awkwardness.

A few days later, while heading towards the pool to take a break from Red Tinsel, loud clacks from the Billiard room drifted to Timi.

Alex had been spending his free time there whenever Timi escaped to his bedroom under the guise of studying the script.

He'd contemplated joining him several times, but he didn't know how to play pool nor what to say to a man who had witnessed his vulnerability and his penchant for spilling secrets.

Again, the room fell under the house sections he had to avoid if he wanted a reprieve from his grief.

He should continue his way to the pool, but his legs seemed to have grown an independent mind. They whirled him around, till he was pushing open the half-ajar door.

Alex bent over the pool table in the centre of the room, chin touching the cue stick he positioned, bathed in a silvery glimmer from the embedded ceiling bulbs. And for a moment, it was Uncle Jude, leaning on the same stick, sipping his favourite beer, and swaying to some Duncan Mighty.

Timi's breath caught, and he must have made a sound, because Alex straightened, and their eyes locked.

Alex's gaze laid him so bare; he wondered whom he saw.

A pathetic excuse of a man battling nightmares like some frail boy?

Or a bumbling idiot with a leaking mouth?

Or a coward who had chosen silence over true reconciliation?

Alex adorned a black shirt and grey cropped trousers.

Timi's approved colours; yet a wrongness about them persisted.

Bright colours had undoubtedly colluded with Alex's personality.

The dreariness in today's choice of clothes mirrored the dullness between them.

He didn't think monochrome would ever bother him.

Alex eventually dropped his gaze, inclining his head towards the table. “Wanna try?”

He'd extended an olive branch, and Timi latched on to it like hair in a baby's fist.

“Don't understand what's alluring about this sport,” he said, coming to stand by the wall mirror facing the table.

Alex began positioning. “As alluring as you thought it was when you bought it.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “Buying it had nothing to do with interest.”

“Why buy it, then?”

“Aesthetics.” Timi gestured at the rest of the room. “Can't you see how much flair it adds?”

Alex's eyes took in what appeared as a storage room. Asides the leather chairs and giant television dangling from a wall, the rest of the room was filled with heaps of products Timi had no use for.

Some covered 3D atriums idleness had pushed him to construct.

Stacks of medical devices for blood pressure, and something about blood glucose.

A solar inverter. Soft quill-free feather pillows.

Lots of unopened boxes of luxurious toiletries, and movie invitations.

Some kitchen appliances Esther had rejected for their absurd usage.

“ Uncle Timi, why I go use oil sprayer? Wetin do my hand? ” A giant massage chair, and boxes of calcium supplements that had been a great flop.

The Vietnamese company hadn't taken into consideration the elites they were marketing to would rather run off to London for routine check-ups than maintain a healthy lifestyle.

All waiting to be given out as gifts to a list of acquaintances he'd compiled.

“It's like science.” The rejoinder came when Alex remained quiet. “Just as morphology studies plant and animal forms, there are deep structural formal relationships in buildings. You want something contemporary; you include what makes it so.”

“I see,” said Alex. “So, you buy things you don't need to keep up an image?”

Timi's expression turned exaggeratedly concerned. “Are you morally cringing at me right now? Itching to shove me into materialistic hell?”

“Depends,” Alex said, giving him a reproachful look. “Would you remain there and suffer for your squandering?”

Considering the few days of not having this, it was the warmest thing he'd ever seen. His lips twitched. “You don't love squanderers. What have they done to you?”

Alex shrugged. “Can't say I hate them. Seeing as one has given me an opportunity to play this without the noise and odour in public pool houses.”

Alex's reply was serious at best, but elation replaced thrill. His ridiculous questions were often met with exasperation or total ignoring. Alex would be the first to play along.

Overcome by something too deep to name, he found himself saying, “I'm truly sorry.”

Alex bent low and shot the white ball. Four coloured balls went into the holes. He threw Timi a glance. “Your turn.”

Timi stared at the stick. “I've never played.”

“Lack of interest?”

“I find all ball sports boring.”

“Who's talking right now? Timi or… ”

He snapped his gaze to Alex, whose face gave nothing away.

He could pretend he didn't remember claiming he wasn't Timi Lawson, but dishonesty seemed counter-productive.

Openness was the bedrock of their…partnership and doing anything different would only widen the chasm growing between them. He needed to bring their music back on.

“Timi, I guess,” he replied.

And Alex's entire face softened with relief. As though he'd staked something important on Timi being truthful. “You remember…”

“Just bits.”

Relief turned...disappointment? “Ah. So, your disappearance was in hopes of finding…you?”

Timi nodded.

“Then, who are we to think the new guy won't consider a career in snooker?”

A helpless smile broke out. “He's too old to start a new career,” he said, even as he shifted closer. “And I don't think this is an enabling environment for his emergence.”

“No one is too old to start anything,” Alex countered, arranging the balls within a triangular rack. “And I think the change you seek is more a product of evolving emotions and perceptions than surroundings.” He removed the rack and stepped back. “Show me the little knowledge you have.”

Timi picked up the stick and mimicked Alex by bending low and pushing the stick between his forefinger and thumb.

He must have been doing it all wrong, because Alex stepped closer, immediately engulfing him in lemon and rain.

An orchard after a downpour. And as in Lee-Gratias, he fought the urge to breathe in its intoxicating freshness.

“Relax your grip,” Alex’s voice washed over him. “You’re aiming for control not domination. Spread your legs wider.”

A palm rested on Timi's lower back, burning through layers of fabric, and he sucked in a breath. Those fingers were on him, lending a strength to his weakness. He stayed still, in case his body betrayed him and pressed in.

“Angle your body slightly to this side,” Alex murmured.

“Like this?” Timi asked softly, arching his back a little.

A heaviness crept into the air, eliciting a thrum beneath his skin, and amplifying every breath Alex drew behind him.

“Spread your fingers for perfect balance,” Alex said, voice lower. “Good. Let your chin rest on the stick. Now, make eye contact with the cue ball to gauge if the tip of the stick is in line with it.”

Timi's movements felt disembodied. He couldn't be the only one feeling the weirdness, could he? Not when it settled on his tongue, a sickly-sweet tangible proof of a brewing madness.

Alex's fingers dug into his flaming flesh. “If you're not sure of the target, move the stick back and forth within your thumb.”

Then, Alex's warm palm covered his spread fingers, and a heavy heat pooled at the pit of his stomach. He pulled his hand back on a low gasp and swerved sideways.

Alex stepped back. “What is it?”