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On the island, there’s never fully peace, not truly. Not for Christian, anyway, with the endless roil of thoughts churning on high in his mind, as constant as the ocean’s tides. There are always numbers to consider, the possibilities of betrayal, the aching tremors of old ghosts howling at the windows, and, of course, Christian’s least favorite part of the game. The unpredictable whirl of human emotion, as starvation, surreality, and the constant loom of a blindside careen feelings into wild, incomprehensible things. Every sensation out here liable to crescendo into a fever pitch without a moment’s warning.
And despite everything, not even Christian is immune to that.
So, although Coach has branded him a flip-flopping, middle-person, whatever that means, and ordinarily, that would send his thoughts into a tizzy… It’s something else that’s snatched away his higher-order operations at just this moment. And he knows it’s down to the elixir of the game.
That it’s that perfect cocktail of starvation and paranoia, blended with the scorching blaze of the sun, the heady ocean air, and the low sounds of the jungle, that has taken his perfectly ordered, rational mind and shaken it up so all he can concentrate on is the warmth of Devan’s arm slung casually around his shoulder.
On the way the other has tugged him in again, fitting the pieces of their limbs together as a drowsy silence overtakes the air around them, a small pocket of surreality that is somehow serene settling over the hammock.
The first time, when he’d come over to the other to get the pulse of what was stirring at camp, only to be greeted with flung open arms and a strangely thoughtful expression, one that had shifted seamlessly into a ludicrously goofy, charming grin as they’d settled close (Captain Kirk, he considered for the thousandth time before he could stop himself), he’d brushed it off with a wry quip. Relegated it into nonexistence. Merely an accident of alcohol crashing into the hunger they all feel out here, for something soft. Meaningless, he’d tried to tell the almost imperceptible hitch of his breath, even as a welcome cheek had brushed into his shoulder, pressed there for a heartbeat too long.
Now, though, somehow the arm has returned, slithered back around his shoulder with no commentary, but only that crooked grin tugging up one side of the other’s mouth. There’s a touch of something almost like a question that lurks at its edges, but no sounds form around it to make it real.
And there’s still business that needs handling, even though neither one of them seems to be in immediate danger. But Christian can’t seem to draw himself out of the comfort of the embrace. Out of the way, wordlessly, he’d settled down and allowed his body to be moved, found himself tucked against the other’s chest, not muscular exactly, but strong, broad, without knowing how exactly it happened.
But having arrived here, in this cuddle, snuggle, whatever it is they’re doing, somehow one thing at night, in the cold, when there’s only night vision and stars, but a totally different animal, in the middle of the golden hour light of the afternoon, having landed in this place, the proximity consumes him.
Some reflexive part of him itches for a pen and paper, so he can chart out all the variables of this moment—dissect it and put it all back together in some fashion he can understand. But the rest of him is too absurdly engulfed by the absence of space between them. By the way the soft puffs of Rick’s breath drift along the contours of his cheeks, still tangled with notes of beer and sesame chicken, and the heat of him, sun-drenched as they all are, but holding somehow more than his fair share, suffusing into Christian’s form where the outlines of their bodies meet.
A primal part of his brain considers, perhaps idly, perhaps with a howl, that it’s not enough, not nearly, that he wants to fling his own arms open and bury himself in the other, press in as far as he can go, burrow into his skin.
And as the musings flit through his brain, the arm around his shoulders squeezes a hair harder, pulls him in closer, tighter, a shade away from possessive, almost like the thought had jumped through the air between them, hopped from one skull’s synapse to another, a Vulcan mind meld at its finest. The smile along the other’s lips brightens, but his eyes don’t shift to look at Christian, stare far into the sky instead.
“You’re thinking too loud.” Devens hums, as though he’s not a thinker himself. As though, Christian isn’t keenly aware, more than even the people who think they understand Rick’s game, that the other’s mind is always moving. (Captain Kirk, again. God save him from his middle school crush.) “Relax, pretend you had some of those beers.”
There’s a languid, lazy lilt to the edge of the other’s words. And maybe Rick is a little tipsy, or maybe he just wants to be. But either way, this isn’t that nothing that could just be brushed off. This is something now. And even starved, neither of them have had enough alcohol for justification. And now it’s acknowledged, out loud in the air between them…
His throat reaches for words, but he isn’t exactly sure what the air in his lungs will transform into, when the other’s arm squeezes him tight, shifts so his head is pressed along Christian’s now, the grown-out stubble of his beard tickling his forehead. Another point of contact. Another overwhelming intimacy.
Christian didn’t have any beers; he doesn’t drink on the island unless he’s totally safe. But suddenly that delicious short-circuiting is hitting him hard, that wonderful hazy emptiness only a substance can provide.
“We can draw a chart about it later.” Devens murmurs, more air than sound against his skin. And the vibrations send shivers down his spine, the sensation of them creeping along one vertebrae after another.
“I’m holding you to that.” He mutters back, and the chuckles in his ear are sparks, cracking and full of licking flame.
He’s found friendship in this game before; he knows what that is, what that’s like.
This is something different.
On the island, there’s never fully peace, not truly. Or there’s not supposed to be anyway, there never has been before. And there’s still business to take care of. But somehow there’s an arm around his shoulders, and a body beneath his cheek, warm. And even if it is just that elixir of starvation and mania and island heat… Just a trick of the shadows…
In the low languid light of the afternoon, Christian’s mind is quiet.