Page 33 of Contested

Marcos’ mind felt like static as he watched Sebastian get to his feet, wiping his mouth as he did. His brain started to fight through it all to replay pieces of what had happened.

His gut dropped, hard and heavy, and his chest felt hollow as though everything had been sucked out of it. His eyes met Sebastian, seeing the grin resting on his face, and he had to look away.

Marcos knew this feeling. He’d felt it before for many other things, but not like this. Not this sharply.

Shame.

It hit fast and kept hitting, insistent enough that he couldn’t breathe around it. His skin was too hot and too visible. The room had too much light in it, even though most of it came from the television. He could still feel Sebastian’s mouth on him, and instead of settling into something good, the memory turned over and pressed somewhere under his ribs until he couldn’t sit still.

He was too exposed now. The pleasure and freedom vanished completely, and he scrambled to cover himself again, getting to his feet as he did. His fingers were clumsy on the waistband, pulling his underwear and shorts up too quickly, fabric catching. He kept his eyes down, because if he looked Sebastian properly, Sebastian would see all of it.

Or maybe he already had.

“You good?” Sebastian asked.

Marcos kept his eyes on the ground. “Fine. Yeah. Uh, thanks.”

The words came out wrong. Too casual and too stupid, but he couldn’t find anything else that didn’t make the feeling worse. He tugged his singlet down, wiping one hand down his face.

“Is there—”

“It’s late. I should get back to my family.”

Marcos stepped past Sebastian and walked toward the hall, hearing footsteps behind him.

“I know what you’re feeling,” Sebastian stated, his voice careful and soft. “You can talk to me about it.”

Marcos pulled his shoes on, shaking his head. “It’s…” He shook his head again and reached for the door, swinging it open. “I’m sorry.”

Then he left.

|| Chapter Eight ||

Marcos – ‘It’s complicated’

Each step toward the elevators sounded wrong. The dull thud of his weight on the carpet. The way the sound barely travelled. Contained to just him.

Marcos called for the elevator and rolled his head, closing his eyes. Flashes of Sebastian plastered themselves behind his eyelids. Different versions of him. Some younger, some bruised and dirty, some older and bigger. Then him on his knees.

Marcos’ eyes flew open, and he let out a sharp exhale. He adjusted his stance as he waited, and pain shot through his heel. He dropped his gaze to his shoes.

The fabric was folded and tucked under itself. The shoelaces were tangled, and the tips were jabbing into his flesh.

“Fuck,” he spat, bending to fix it as the elevator doors opened.

Stumbling over himself, Marcos got into the elevator and straightened himself. The ride down was slow. Though his stomach seemed to already be waiting for him on the ground floor, and the rest of his body needed to catch up.

He hated the feeling. As though something was missing. That something was wrong.

Marcos blinked hard and rubbed both hands down his face, letting out a sigh. What the fuck did I just do?

His gaze landed on his reflection. His hair was dishevelled, curls flicking out in all directions. The bruise on his cheek flushed and was more prominent than before. His lips were still red from the pressure of Sebastian’s.

He turned away. He couldn’t look at himself. Not now. Not after what had happened. It had been his decision, and that was what made it worse. There was no one to blame for how he felt other than himself.

The doors slid open as the elevator reached the ground floor, and Marcos stepped out, shuffling across the lobby without a second glance at anything around him.

Traffic noise hit him first as he pushed out the door. Low rumbling and a few car horns. The gentle breeze came next. Not cold. It was still carrying a hint of the summer day that preceded it. A few people still wandered the streets, waiting for a bus or a taxi, but other than that, the night was bare.