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* * *
Wentworth: Have I mentioned how happy I am?
* * *
Elliot: [three heart emojis]
* * *
Wentworth: She’ll be released into her sister’s care tomorrow. Benny has promised to make daily visits with me to make sure she’s fine.
Elliot smiled wistfully at Wentworth’s tender concern.
Elliot: Your support, both being there for her . . . Louisa is very lucky.
Leaning back in his booth, he stared at their messages. Every one carefully revolved around Louisa. He wanted, desperately wanted, to take up Wentworth’s offer to talk about other things, but what? No, not what—there was plenty he could bring up—but what should he bring up?
Never could there be another Meet Cute. But could there be a start of a beautiful friendship?
He wrote a line, and deleted it. Wrote another. Deleted that too.
A lot rode on this.
Too loud to think here: karaoke and applause filled every space. He pushed back his chair and stood, weaving through tables and out into the street.
He sat on the windowsill in his work-paid-for AirBnB—a cute attic apartment that overlooked the village’s main street—and opened his messages once more.
No, it wasn’t witty, or memorable. It was simply a need to reach out, to say something.
A start.
Elliot: What’re you up to now?
* * *
Wentworth: Walking home. Such a quiet night. The sky is turquoise like tropical waters.
* * *
Elliot: I’d like to see that.
* * *
Wentworth: The sky? Or tropical waters?
* * *
Elliot: Both.
A picture popped up on his phone, an intense green-blue sky. Turquoise. Or perhaps paua-shell green. Mesmerising.
Elliot: Maybe one with you in the frame next time?
Bold, perhaps. But . . .
The dots on his screen jumped and stopped. Jumped and stopped again.
Wentworth: How was your day? Exciting?
* * *
Elliot: It was. It’s everything I wanted it to be here . . .
* * *
Wentworth: But . . .?
* * *
Elliot: It’s seven o’clock and I’m already back at my apartment. My back hurts from standing on lumpy grass all day and there is no one here.
* * *
Wentworth: to . . . rub your back?
* * *
Elliot: to share with. But a back rub would be something.
Dots again. Perhaps that was a push too far and Wentworth didn’t know how to respond. Fair.
Another picture came through. This time, Wentworth was grinning into the camera. A shock of rusty hair and dark sparkling eyes dulled the sky’s prettiness. Elliot could stare at the tenderness spilling from his expression all night. Perhaps he would.
Wentworth: Better?
* * *
Elliot: Truth?
* * *
Wentworth: From now on, always.
* * *
Elliot: It makes me wish I was there with you.
Wentworth didn’t reply. He’d seen the message though. To stop himself from staring at the screen the rest of the night, Elliot grabbed a towel and headed for the shower.
He tipped his face into the spray. Finally, hot water. The tension he’d been carrying for weeks slowly unspooled under the massaging pressure on his back.
He soaped his body, playing lazily with his hardening cock, and then crumpled against the shower wall as he let himself enjoy the moment. Let himself imagine. He stroked slowly, played with his foreskin, and in his mind, he was back in his own bathroom. In his bath, with Wentworth fixing his pipes.
Wentworth’s dedication to the task. His focus. His constant determination to help Elliot, no matter his frustrations . . .
His toes curled and his cock throbbed.
He stroked faster. He was on Wentworth’s boat, the sky gloriously turquoise, and Wentworth was above him, batting his hand away, taking hold of Elliot himself. Calloused fingers fell into an old, practiced rhythm, never forgotten . . .
He gasped, and spilled hot ropes over his stomach.
He could see Wentworth’s satisfied grin, and Elliot knocked his head back against the shower wall. If only.
He towelled off and trudged with a sigh to bed. Between crisp sheets, he tried to push away all thoughts of Wentworth, but . . . Maybe reading would help.
Or scrolling Twitter.
Or watching something on Netflix.
Useless. The internet was useless in his time of need—
His phone rang.
Elliot gripped it, heart thumping wildly in his chest.
Wentworth?
Maybe this was a misdial. He’d have thought he’d be passed out in his cabin by now. He always used to prefer being in bed by eleven. It was the mornings he lived for.
Elliot answered, tentatively. “Hello?”
“You sound surprised.” Wentworth’s voice implied a satisfied smirk.
“Can’t say I was expecting you to call.”
“I’ve always liked to surprise you.”
“I hope it becomes a thing.”
Wentworth’s breath crackled down the line. Nervous? Or questioning himself after all? “So, I, uh . . . wanted to know . . . how was your day?”
“Pretty much the same as when you asked earlier.”
“Oh, right. Of course. So, good then?”
“Yes, it really was.” It might have just gotten better. “And yours? Your evening?”
“I had Benny over for dinner to thank him for everything. He’s working miracles on Louisa. Once again, my saviour.”
