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Joq reared back in surprise.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Fine,” Chris slid out from under him, swung his legs over the bed and gripped his head.
Joq’s hand landed on his back.
Chris sprung up to shake him off.
“Chris?”
“Give me a sec,” Chris rushed into the bathroom. It was a beautiful space—open to the night sky with pebbles moulded into tiles, an enormous shower in which Chris had fucked Joq multiple times.
He shuddered.
He couldn’t go back out there. He couldn’t let Joq touch him.
“Fuck,” he hissed at himself.
He could still smell Joq on his skin. He got in the shower and turned it full blast.
The feeling was so familiar and yet there was something new in it. Shame had always been its bedfellow but now that shame was taking on a deeply personal note.
“Chris, are you alright? Did I hurt you?” Joq asked from outside the curtain.
His voice, his nice, concerned voice was like nails down a blackboard.
“Give me a sec!” Chris shouted, desperate and, shit, scared.
He felt rather than saw Joq pause. Chris held his breath, frozen under the water pounding on his shoulders. He exhaled roughly when Joq went away.
Shit, shit, shit.
What was he going to do? He couldn’t just leave. He didn’t want to just leave. And yet, he had to leave.
And he couldn’t stay in the shower forever. He got out and spent too much time drying himself, his hair, every inch of himself. He was scared to go back into the room. He couldn’t let Joq touch him.
He braced himself and went out, ready with an excuse—I’m not feeling well, might be contagious, I’ll get a room in a hotel until tomorrow—only Joq wasn’t there.
He was surprised when what he felt wasn’t relief, but panic. He went to the cupboard and yanked on pants, a shirt, didn’t bother with the buttons.
Joq had already left? He needed to find him, to explain—
Movement on the deck caught his eye. He made out Joq sitting on the edge, his feet in the water, gaze on the horizon.
Chris breathed out shakily. What was he thinking? He owed Joq an explanation, not a fucking lie.
He went out, prepared for Joq to call him out, only Joq merely tensed, continued to watch the horizon, a bottle of beer held casually in his hand. He took a sip.
“I,” Chris started.
Joq glanced up at him, his expression closed-off and blue in the moonlight.
“You?” he asked simply after Chris didn’t go on. “Did I hurt you?” he asked again with a hint of concern.
“No,” Chris said.
They lapsed into awkward silence. Chris watched Joq and saw the past month cycle through his mind—the way Joq had finally let go, smiled at him like it was real, let Chris fuck him like he’d trust him with anything, everything—all of it colliding with this familiar dread.
