It’s hard to see it, in the pulsing lights of the nightclub, the way the drink in front of him sparkles. It had some posh, prickish, sounding name that was giggled into his ear by the bird he’d brought along but not brought along with him. Funny who you can accidentally bump into when you’re all on holiday to the same five hundred square kilometers.
He knows he’s not being a good time really. Pissing off to the corner booth, not pulling her up to the DJ booth like she probably wants him too. Show her off in front of everyone, photos that will be shared and reshared.
A drop of condensation runs down the side of the glass. He wonders if she’d cry if he told her the truth, that when she’d touched him in the toilets earlier it wasn’t pleasure that had him closing his eyes but the fact that it made it easier to picture him instead. To pretend that the fingers groping the front of his trousers weren’t hers, the lips on his neck was someone else's entirely.
The clock on the microwave blinks. Another minute of lost sleep visualised. It’s stupid, he knows, to lose sleep over something that was his own decision. But what was his life recently if not night after night spent ruminating over his own fuckups.
He knows it’s a bit melodramatic. But when he spends weeks on end being the stoic one, the level headed one, the unflappable one, he thinks he deserves it; a bit of wallowing. He just wishes his brain would be less of a cunt and not feel the need to wallow at two in the fucking morning.
It’s the bed, he thinks, that makes him so reflective. He should have known better than to spend the first week of break at his flat. It’s much harder to forget someone when you can convince yourself that your sheets still smell like them.
The music's too loud and the grip on his arm has tightened. Something’s being whispered into his ear, about loosening him up, having a bit of fun, he’s not sure really. He wants it all to stop, honestly. He knows what it looks like from the outside—the girls and boats and clubs. Wishes it all felt as glamorous as people seemed to think.
But it’s not like there’s anything he can do about it. Not like it’s his choice to be here and not somewhere else entirely. Like last summer, when the hands on him had been warm and caring. He reaches out and downs the drink in one go.
He knows he shouldn't, but he’s exhausted. And he wants to sleep. For months he’s told himself to delete it, that it was shared with him before he’d turned bitter and snappy and depressed. But he can’t help it. He’s tried to get rid of it, but then he thinks about never hearing his name like that again, in that voice, with that much love, and the thought of losing it makes him want to vomit.
A minute in and his hand drifts to the front of his briefs, pressing lightly. The tinny breaths echo throughout his bedroom from his phone’s speaker, and his own chest rises and falls in time. If he could go back and fix it, make sure he didn’t fuck this one thing up, out of all the things he’d fucked up in his life, he’d do anything.
Maybe three minutes have passed before his vision starts going blurry. The nails tighten against the skin of his forearm. He hears her laugh to her friend that she can’t believe it’s working and when he blinks his eyes at his lap to clear his vision he realizes he’s hard, dick firming up against his thigh. He doesn’t understand what's happening, but he can’t, not here, not without—
The call shocks him so badly he drops his phone, hand tightening where he’d been stroking himself slowly. He thinks for a second he’s dreaming, brain buffering for a moment before he clicks accept.
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