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Beckett frowned at him. “We need to make breakfast.”
Miles stood and put his hands on Beckett’s shoulders, directing Beckett back into his chair. Surprisingly, Beckett didn’t resist.
“Stay,” Miles told him. “I’ll make breakfast.”
Miles grabbed the bacon, a carton of eggs and two tomatoes. He placed a frypan on the gas stove, drizzled on a little oil, and started cooking.
“I can slice these,” Beckett said, reaching for the tomatoes.
Miles swatted his fingers away, and Beckett snatched his hand back as if he’d been electrocuted.
Miles pretended he didn’t notice. “I’m cooking breakfast,” he said.
After thickly slicing the tomatoes, Miles dumped them into the pan too and flipped the bacon, which had started crackling. Beckett watched with his hands on the arm rests of his chair, as if he were ready to leap into action should Miles ask for help.
A couple minutes later, Miles finished cooking and served breakfast on two large plates. “Here you are,” he said cheerfully.
Beckett thanked him, and they ate.
Suddenly, Beckett hung his head. “Oh,” he breathed.
“What’s up?”
Beckett put his fork and knife down. “I’ve figured out why you wanted to cook breakfast so bad. Last night—”
Both of them stiffened. A funny look passed over Beckett’s face, and he coughed.
“Last night,” he continued, “you said you’d do all the cooking and cleaning if I let you share my tent.”
“It’s only fair. I invaded your tent.”
“You didn’t invade it. Don’t use dramatic words.”
“Look, I feel guilty about it, okay? So let me make it up to you.”
“You feel guilty?” Beckett repeated, his eyes latching onto Miles’s.
“N-no,” Miles stuttered. “I mean, yes, I do feel guilty for forcing you to share with me. I know it was uncomfortable.”
“It wasn’t uncomfortable,” Beckett replied in a quiet voice. He looked down at his knees and brushed away imaginary dust. “I didn’t mind it, so don’t feel guilty. Don’t feel like you have to make it up to me either.”
“Okay,” Miles replied after a moment.
Ten minutes later, they washed the dishes together at the sink outside the bathrooms. Miles still insisted he do the harder job, which was washing, while Beckett dried. Sometimes, while passing coffee-stained mugs or greasy knives to each other, their eyes would catch. Miles wondered if Beckett was thinking of the same thing. Of the previous night, uneven breaths and frantic hands. Of them kissing, of them shuddering against the other when they came.
Beckett’s mouth had been so soft and warm and wet. Miles felt jittery just thinking about it.
After they returned to their campsite and put everything away, Miles opened the esky. When he’d grabbed the bacon earlier, he’d noticed the ice had melted into slush. “We need some new ice.”
“There’s a general store at the front of the campsite. We can buy ice there.” Beckett inclined his head down the dirt path.
It was a short walk to the general store, which was an old wooden building with a tin roof. Beckett looked for the ice while Miles wandered around the aisles. There was bug spray, matches, gas canisters. Cookies, and chips, and chocolate. There was a section for health and hygiene related stuff: deodorant, soap, toothbrushes, and toothpaste. Bandaids. Wet tissues. Razors and shaving cream.
No condoms. No lube either. Miles wasn’t surprised.
He was standing in front of a selection of sleeping bags when Beckett joined him.
“I could buy one,” Miles said. “That way we don’t have to share.”
