Martin’s throat hurt the longer Oliver spoke. He’d like to believe that Seb cared about him, but...
“He left.”
“He’s hurting, and he doesn’t know what to do with everything he’s feeling. He’s been putting distance between himself and the people and situations that hurt him for years, so that’s his go-to response.” Oliver put a hand on Martin’s arm. “You haven’t done anything wrong. He’ll come back when he’s ready.”
Martin wished he could believe him.
* * *
Seb wasn’t sure how they got to the loft door. Kenneth was a hundred and eighty pounds of nearly dead, intoxicated weight draped across his shoulders.
“This isn’t my apartment,” Kenneth slurred as Seb propped him up against the wall and fished through his pockets for keys.
“It totally is. Don’t be an asshole.”
“But I don’t want to be at my apartment. I want to be at Anton’s apartment.” He hiccupped, and Seb had to move fast as Kenneth slumped toward the floor. But his dismay over not being in his fuckboy du jour’s bed vanished as Seb ran his hands over Kenneth’s clothes and then in the other places he might have stashed a key.
Giggling, he pulled Seb closer, nuzzling at his neck. “You’re pretty.” His breath smelled like the fruity vodka drinks he’d spent all night drinking at the club. “You’ve always been so pretty.”
“Get off me!” Seb found the single key, deep in the front pocket of the skintight jeans Kenneth had poured himself into, and shoved him away. Cursing, he fumbled until he managed to get the lock open and swung the door wide.
“We should go to Pete’s Gate! Anton always goes there after the other bars close. We could still catch up to him. He’d like you, trust me.”
“Shut up and get inside.” Seb ground his teeth as the last of his patience wilted.
Clubbing had been Kenneth’s idea, and Seb should have seen it for the mistake it was from the outset. But he’d been tired and numb, and letting someone else make plans and decisions had been a relief, so he hadn’t given it much thought.
Kenneth spotted Anton almost from the moment they arrived and proceeded to drink himself under the table while rambling on about how much he missed him and what he would do to win Anton back. Of course, he’d done none of those things, and Seb finally found him nearly passed out in the bathroom shortly before last call.
And that was how he wound up dragging his oldest so-called friend up to Kenneth’s apartment at dark o’clock without the benefit of a buzz or someone to help him take the edge off through the night.
Not that he wanted anyone. Certainly not Kenneth, and not one of the guys who had come up to him with a smile on their lips and sex on their minds. The hands on his body when he’d tried to dance felt like fire against his skin, burning trails all the way to his heart which screamed at him to get out. Every face looked the same, and none sparked his interest.
At night, all cats are gray.
Seb didn’t want to think about the hands and the body he really needed right now.
Kenneth was unconscious by the time Seb had him sprawled out on the couch. He poured a glass of water and set it on the coffee table, then headed to the bathroom.
Steam filled the room as he stripped out of the jeans and T-shirt he’d worn. He was tired, but he stank of booze and the film any bar packed to its fire code capacity left on everyone inside.
The water was hot enough to scald his skin, and he stood under its spray, head bent, letting it slide the grime off his body, wishing it could take more with it.
Exhausted and heartsick, he’d arrived at Kenneth’s the day before. Kenneth took one look at him and forced him into bed, despite Seb’s protests that he’d hardly done anything but sleep for days. Kenneth went full-blown mother hen on him, or, as best he could anyway. His cooking skills were limited to heating chicken noodle soup in the microwave and serving it on a tray with saltines. Seb pointed out he was homeless, not sick, but Kenneth didn’t care.
Seb had still been awake deep into the night, long after Kenneth had fallen asleep in the other room. When he checked his phone, he had streams of missed calls going back days, mostly from Oliver. The one call Martin had answered was a green checkmark amidst the red list. The more recent calls from Martin and Oliver, the ones since he’d left Seacroft, came less and less frequently as the day went on.
He’d been wrong to insinuate anything going on between Oliver and Martin. He shouldn’t have said it but hadn’t been able to stop himself. They were together now, though, talking about him like a wounded bird that needed care.
He didn’t need anything from them. He’d never needed anything from anyone but himself.
There had been voicemails too, but Seb didn’t bother to listen to them or the cold comfort they offered.
He’d finally fallen asleep as the sun was rising, which meant it was late in the afternoon when Kenneth ripped the blanket off him and told him to get his ass out of bed. “Come on, princess. Moping won’t help. We’re going out.”
“Out” meant drinks, then dinner, then more drinks, then dancing. Seb enjoyed himself at first, but the longer he let Kenneth drag him from one bar to the next, the more he wanted to go home, wherever that was.
Now, back in Kenneth’s apartment, he shut the water off in the shower. The bathroom was warm and steamy as he stepped out and dried himself. His hands on his body made him think of Martin’s hands doing the same thing in his parents’ guest room bath. He blocked out the ache from the memory of Martin’s lips on his skin.
