John looked Eddie in the eyes, deep in the eyes, and shook his head. ‘No. I don’t.’

‘Me neither.’

Eddie kissed him.

‘The fuck are you doing?’ John snapped. He shoved Eddie backwards. ‘Get the fuck off me.’

‘I…’

‘I’m not into that shit, Eddie.’

‘Well neither am I,’ Eddie said, forcing a laugh. ‘It was a joke, because of where we are and—’

‘Bullshit.’

Eddie rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and muttered, ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck…’

‘I’m gonna go.’

‘Wait.’ Eddie blocked his way. ‘John, just wait.’

‘Let me pass, Ed.’

‘I’m sorry, okay. It was a joke. I was trying to be funny.’

‘Funny,’ John echoed. ‘Okay.’

‘You’re not going to tell anyone, are you? Craig and Gordy and those other guys?’

‘Let me pass.’

‘I thought…’

‘Get the fuck out of the way, Eddie.’

‘I thought you wanted … I thought you were into…’

‘I’m not.’

‘But—’

‘I’m not, Eddie,’ John said. ‘I’m not like you. I’m not a…’

‘A fag?’

‘That’s not what I said.’

But that’s what Eddie heard. His anger flared.

Eddie had shoved John. John shoved him back. Then, in the blink of an eye – just long enough to throw the Switch – Eddie threw a punch. It connected with John’s chin – not hard, but hard enough to send John stumbling back, pinwheeling for balance. A flash of chaos came next, a mad and awkward burst of childish violence.

They pushed, pulled and punched, cursed and gasped and cried. They became a tangle of limbs, but somewhere in that tangle, Eddie kissed John again. This time, John let him.

Thunder growled in the distance. The squawking of seabirds and the pounding of waves drifted in through wide cracks in the floorboards, and through the front door, which hung open on one hinge.

Eddie slid to his knees, fumbling dumbly with John’s belt. He unbuckled, unbuttoned, and unzipped.

It was awkward and uncomfortable, wonderful and perfect. John moaned, bit down on his bottom lip, tasting blood and toothpaste. He threaded his fingers through Eddie’s hair and guided him up and down, back and forth, following the rhythm of his body, the rhythm of the waves outside.

John looked out through the dusty, yellowing window. A fat brown moth clung to the glass, then flicked its wings and flew through a hole in the ceiling. John’s focus shifted then. He looked out over the landing and drew in a tight, sudden breath. There was a car parked over by the boat ramps. A dark-blue BMW. It hadn’t been there when they’d come in, had it?’

‘Eddie, stop. There’s a car out there. I think there’s someone … here.’