Never does he ever care, and worse, never does he ever KNOW. It was around this time that his husband’s fury sparked into a tiny flame. “What do you mean you don’t care?” his husband demands. “It’s about us. It’s always about us. It’s about the deep rooted hatred toward men like us.” “Yea,” he responds, “But I don’t care.” His husband sighs at his general apathy, but then realizes that perhaps the apathy is more specific. “We’ve existed since the dawn of humanity. You know how I know this?” his husbands starts. “Sure, how?” he snorts. “Cause we’re written about in that fucking Bible. Men have been enjoying themselves in a homosexual capacity for ages, and we only know this because of how specifically wicked the treatment toward gays has been … since forever … like forever ever,” his husband shouts, nearly through tears now. He lowers his head in shame. “No, don’t fucking feel ashamed, Love. Just, you can’t not care,” his husband soothes. “I don’t care because I don’t want to,” he pauses for a moment; “I can’t care cause it’s just too fucking much sometimes … all the time … every single fucking day sometimes.” “Yea,” his husband responds. “That’s why we have to care. If we don’t care about our own rights and our own humanity, how can we expect others to?” “Maybe,” he retorts, glum.