Dawn

It's six o'clock in the morning and you're drunk. There's a half-empty bottle of expensive Californian wine on the Californian table next to your Californian elbow. Clearly, you're not nearly drunk enough -- drunk enough to forget where you are, to forget why you are, and to forget about who's not there with you.

A dim part of you is horrified that you've stayed up all night long with only a pen, some paper, and a bottle of wine for company. The rest of you can't be bothered to care. You'll tumble into bed in a few minutes, sleep for several hours, and be woken up later, with a feral hangover, by the phone ringing. For some reason, you aren't looking forward to it.

He still rests heavily on your mind. Him -- Daniel. Your best friend, with the green eyes and the dandelion hair. The one who's beach-bumming in Brisbane while you get smashed in San Francisco. The one you left. The one who left you. You can no longer remember who cast out who -- whether it was Daniel, with his long silences and his yearning for privacy, or you, with your addiction to fame and your smothering need for him to get addicted, too.

It doesn't matter who left who, or who pushed who away. It's over now, and it's been over for a long time. All the things you'd hoped for, all the fantasies you'd entertained -- gone. You used to look at him and think now, and think forever, but instead of forever you got... San Francisco.

A knock at the door stirs you from your drunken reverie. You start, accidentally knocking over your wine glass. It's empty, so your poor, abused carpet is safe for the time being, but the glass makes a sharp pinging sound as it collides with the hard surface of the kitchen table. You start cursing softly under your breath, harsh words that many of your adoring fans couldn't imagine ever hearing from you. The glass didn't shatter so there aren't any shards to pick up, but you canvas the table's surface just in case.

You're carrying the cracked glass over to the trash when you hear another knock and remember the presence at your door. This prompts another round of swearing as you put the glass on the nearest available surface and quickly look yourself over. You're hideous. The shirt you're wearing looks as though its been chewed on, and the trousers bear several unbecoming stains in noticeable places. You curse one more time before staggering over to the door. It's a sure sign of your inebriated state that you don't even check to see who's outside before you open it.

There is Daniel, then, standing on the doorstep wearing a placid smile and sunglasses perched on top of his surf-blond head. Daniel. On the doorstep.

"Hi Darren," he says. "I know I should have called, but I just... missed you." He looks a little sad as he says this.

You blink mutely, and when Daniel's hand comes up to cup your chin you realise your mouth has been hanging open. You force yourself to close it.

And Daniel. At the bleeding edge of dawn on your doorstep at too damn early in the morning, without a hint of sleepiness in his jade eyes, smiling, and the smell of coffee wafting up from the two cups in his hands --

"You're home," you say dumbly.

Daniel looks confused. And beautiful.

"No, I'm not," he protests mildly. "I'm in San Francisco."

"That's what I said," you murmur in reply.

Ten o'clock in the morning now, and the sunlight through closed curtains and the sound of sparrows and Daniel. Daniel is still unconscious, a sleepy golden shape tangled in your sheets, slumbering like Ganymede in the palace of Troy -- you will snatch him up and take him to the heavens; you will steal him away and place him among the stars.

Daniel stirs and slowly opens his eyes. He peers at you from beneath hooded lids and a smile spreads across his sun-kissed features.

"Hey," he says, and it is the most beautiful sound you have ever heard.

"Hey," you answer.

"Well," he says. He should have been the singer, Daniel, the poet, that voice --

"Well," you reply.

He laughs then and you think the sun has burst and you have never, ever been this happy before. He grins at you and you see how white his teeth are against those pink lips, bronzed skin.

"It's about fucking time, isn't it?" He asks you.

Yes, you think to yourself, and nod enthusiastically. Yes, it's about time, it's all about time. It always has been. It's about the time you were with him in Brisbane and the time you spent in New York while he was oceans away, the time you were together and the time when you thought it was over for good.

And now it's about the time you slept in each other's arms this morning. The time you spent watching him before he woke. The time it took between his last words and him leaning over to kiss you good morning just now, and he doesn't taste like morning breath but he does taste faintly of coffee and Daniel and Daniel and Daniel --

It's about the time you've got from now until forever.