Post-Coital Panic

a/n: Not much to say up here. I'm submitting Ch.2 and Ch.3 for approval at the same time, so hopefully they'll be approved at the same time. I was going to lump them together again, but it really would've been too long. Per usual, check my bio for updates. If I'm writing, posting, I'll let you guys know when things have been submitted/are pending/were rejected, etc. This one is all plot, no smut. Ch. 3 is almost the opposite.

Possible CW's: Psychological abuse, kind of.

PART II.

Three days.

Three days left on this godforsaken ship.

Returning to my room

,

I'm convinced there's nothing and no one that'll see me out of it. Even should this boat go down, I'm prepared to

die in here

, a ten grand coffin. There's a bed, a bathroom, WiFi, and hot meals carted directly to my door. Just me and--

...the relentless, unforgiving hellscape of my own mind.

Since...

then,

I've teetered between detachment and unadulterated panic. 'Experimentation and curiosity are natural and healthy, and you'll find certain things won't stick. They're just not for you, and that's okay! Don't bog yourself down with labeling. It's not always going to be one size fits all.' Per the article. But, that wasn't just

experimentation.

Zakhar exceeded the expectations I'd imagined for him, and it was unarguably the best goddamn sex I've ever had.

I didn't just cum, I had

orgasms.

Like, six different genres of it. My body felt new things, and at my grown age, that's jarring. I swear to God, there were moments I was cumming

water.

Other times, nothing. Dry. My poor, chafed dick was sputtering dust by the end of it, balls shriveled to raisins. Of course I'd be concerned about what this means for me, labels aside. Is this going to have a ripple effect on my everyday life?

Will I start looking at other men with sexual curiosity?

Will I still get satisfaction from regular, heterosexual sex?

No, no, let's calm down. Be rational, Kit. Just because something was exceptional, it doesn't detract from simpler, standard pleasures. If our lives were completely destabilized by singular moments in time, there'd be no will to keep living. Still, my wounds are raw. It was unbelievably stupid of me to have a one-night stand on a

ten day cruise.

As previously noted, this ship isn't big enough to assume I won't bump into him again. There's a chance I won't, but there's a chance I might. It's out of the fucking question,

I can't see him again.

For many, many reasons.

Scenario #1: We cross paths by coincidence, something that's already happened twice. Zakhar doesn't acknowledge my existence, because I was nothing more than a notch on the bedpost. Pride, obliterated. Feelings, probably hurt. I can admit that. It'd suck to mean fuck all to someone who's done

irreparable damage

to my inner peace. But, we're both adults, and sex is often meaningless.

Scenario #2: We cross paths by coincidence, and Zakhar

does

acknowledge my existence. It doesn't matter how. Whatever he has to say, whatever he does, I'll make an irredeemable fool of myself. It's a guaranteed outcome. Even in the wildest bounds of my imagination, I can't conjure any cool, mature reaction from myself.

Scenario #3: Zakhar doesn't wait for a coincidental meeting. By fleeing, I broke some sacred decorum, maybe even wounded

his

pride. He hunts me down, and Kit Carrington is never heard from again. He drowned in the Mediterranean, or he's shearing sheep for two rubles a day in some remote corner of the world.

Unacceptable. I can't face Zakhar. I can't face the guys. I can barely face

myself.

My body's a damning record, a minefield of evidence. I can't look at myself, I can't even move without setting off a memory. Nothing explicitly hurts, but everything aches. Waking from the first of many stress naps, I was unbelievably stiff. It's testament to how much I strained, either braced against the repetitive slam of his hips or seized in pleasure. There wasn't much in between. God, my

ass.

The biggest pill of them all, one I had to choke down dry--

I'd do it again.

Look, life is too short not to be honest with yourself, even if it smarts. Even if it's deeply, deeply uncomfortable. Revisiting that second scenario, if Zakhar puts it on the table, I'd do it all over again. It's a real 'jump/how high' situation. Hell, it'd probably be

easier

the second go around. I know exactly what I'm getting into, read all the fine print. Mechanically, at least. I don't know the first thing about Zakhar himself, but he seemed to treat it casually. Even so, it wouldn't be smart. Terrible, horrible idea.

This is all I can think to do. Plying myself with dramamine, intermittently sleeping, crawling from the divine protection of the blanket only to snatch silver-plated trays of food from the corridor. Cryptid behavior.

Three days is reduced to twelve hours, courtesy of Henry's mothering complex. I'm determined to ignore the incessant knocking at my door, which soon turns to banging. The repeated calls, too. I did text him upon returning to the suite, so he knows I'm alive. That should be enough, even though I knew Henry wouldn't think so. My text offered no explanation. He must've been expecting me to creep from my room at some point in the day, but his patience expires by three in the afternoon. Unfortunately, Charlie has spare keycards for every room under his name.

I pretend to be asleep, a limp mound under the covers, when my door smashes the wall.

"Cut the shit, I know you're not asleep."

"Fuck off."

"Dude, what the

fuck

is going on? What happened last night? I'm fucking worried!"

When I make no moves to uncover myself or answer his questions, Henry tries to rip the blanket away. I clutch at it fiercely from within. One look-over, and he'll know exactly what happened last night. I'd never be able to pass this bruising off as the aftermath of a fight.

"Shit, stop! I'm--I'm naked!" I'm not.

"I don't give a shit!"

Fuck.

"Okay, okay! Stop, just--!"

Henry drops the edge of the blanket with an aggravated huff. Hardening my nerves, I sit up in bed. The material falls around my waist, and while I'm not naked, I'm without a shirt. Predictably, he takes a few seconds to gape. Then, like he's my actual goddamn

mother,

he claps a palm across the bottom of his face. "Dude..."

"What?"

I snap, as defensiveness rears up at his disbelieving tone.

Of course he'd be in disbelief. In all the years we've known each other, I've never expressed interest in another man, let alone

bottoming

for one. The dark smudging at my hips wouldn't suggest anything otherwise. Sure, I'm free-spirited, but Henry would've never thought to this extent. Neither would I. It's not fair to get snippy with him, but

fuck, it's so embarrassing.

I turn my face away, because I can't bear to keep looking at his.

"It's exactly what it looks like, okay? So, can you

please

fuck off now?"

It seems my version of 'exactly what it looks like' is much, much different from Henry's, because the turn in conversation is almost too humiliating to stomach. He drops onto the edge of the bed, taking me carefully by the shoulders. "Kit, hey, you...you can talk to me, okay? I know it might seem overwhelming, but we can

do something

about this. Just, tell me what happened."

My mouth drops, eyes bugging from their sockets.

Dear fucking Christ, he thinks I was

raped.

Somehow, that's more demoralizing than him assuming it was consensual. The idea is just that far removed from the realm of possibility, in Henry's mind. Again, I shouldn't bite his head off for thinking the worst. He's concerned, like always. I'm a fuck-up, like always. Digging the meat of my palms into my eyes, they feel hot and dry. Groaning, "oh my God, Henry, it's not like that. Holy shit, man."

"...it isn't?"

"No!" I shrug his hands off, batting him away. "No, I--it was..."

Oh my

fucking God.

My voice cracks, almost a squeak. "...consensual."

Henry's suddenly mortified by his own jumping to conclusion. "Oh,

oh!

Fuck, Kit, I'm--"

"For the love of God, don't apologize. This is agonizing enough."

"You're in pain--?!"

"I didn't mean it like that, fuck!"

Despite the rocky start, Henry's always been easy to talk to. He might worry, but he's never judgemental. He's certainly not prejudiced. Before we settle into a proper discussion, Henry gives me enough space to freshen up and find a shirt. Zakhar has to have a fetish, or maybe he just doesn't bother adjusting the strength of his grip with men. I'm not black and blue all over, but it's writ large in all the key places. Looking in the mirror, it's easy to see why Henry misunderstood me as a victim.

I wish I hated it. Instead, the discoloration and speckle of busted vessels activates the hyperrealism of my memory. Blood is quick to burn under my skin, veins like boiling tributaries. My gut tightens with what can only be excitement. Instead of hunching over the ensuite's sink, it's like I'm right back beneath Zakhar. His weight. His cologne. His low, rasping voice. He makes reality so fuzzy, more than anyone I've ever met. That's the most disconcerting part of it all. I'm exhausted in every way a person can be, and Henry must notice as I finally vacate the bathroom. While he looks a little guilty for pushing the subject, I can tell it's not one he's willing to turn a blind eye to.

He clears his throat, shifting on the small sofa, "so..."

Plopping onto the edge of the bed, I can't help but mirror his discomfort. "Yup."

"He's...he was the guy from the club, right?"

Sharp as a tack, per usual. "Tch, yeah. Same guy."

"How'd, uh..." Henry claws at the air for delicate phrasing, "...how'd you become acquainted?"

If I waited for Henry to find the right words for every question, this conversation might never end. "We ran into each other a few times, then we fucked. I went up there of my own free will. That's it, okay?"

Henry takes the crude explanation in stride, pushing a breath through his nose. "Look, you can see why I thought...what I did, right? This isn't exactly you're, ah...wheelhouse, Kit. Why didn't you tell me you were interested in this kind of thing before now? Guys, I mean. You know I'd never judge you for--"

"I'm not. I wasn't. I don't fuckin' know, man, okay? I don't know!"

It's enough for Henry to understand I'm just as lost as he is, and it's not some big, dirty secret I've been harboring. It's a dilemma that doesn't precede this trip. There's a beat of silence, and again, he's wracking his brain for a tactful approach that doesn't exist. Everything about a talk like this is tedious and grating, and there's no dancing around it. His next question, however, is one we both cringe through:

"How...was it...?"

Whimpering, I drop my face in my hands. Henry's immediately distressed, surely thinking it was the worst night of my life, a mistake only therapy can rectify. He starts to reach out, "Kit, oh my God, I'm--"

"It was good!"

I lament. "Fuck, it was really, really

good."

"...oh." Henry's anticlimactic response sets me off all over again, and I rip my face up to scowl at him.

"'Oh'?! No, no, not just 'oh'! This--this is--!"

"Woah, hey, calm down, man." Henry's literal 'voice of reason' sets my jaw to a clench. "I get it now. I get that it's something you want to freak out about. But, that's not you, dude."

"Wha--?"

Henry shakes his head, dispelling the interruption. "As long as you're safe and taking care of yourself, who cares? What's there to freak about? You tried something new and liked it, that's it. It doesn't change anything about you, and it doesn't have to mean anything. It's not like you to sweat the small stuff. Just...roll with the punches like you always do."

He says it all in a smooth, rolling cadence, no one word taking up more space than another. He'll make a great lawyer, an even better father. I want to argue that there's so much more to it, but there really...isn't. I chose to do it, I enjoyed it, and I've got all the time in the world to figure it out from here. Sex is never something I've taken too seriously, and while the memories are vivid in their newness, even newer ones will be piled atop them before long. In three days, this boat will dock in Civitavecchia. In five, I'll be home. Zakhar will always be a point of interest on my timeline, but that's it. When you remember everything, there's nothing special in being unforgettable.

"...right. Yeah." I sag back into my hands, and the sigh that deflates my chest feels like it unburdens me of a century's worth of stress. "You're right. Sorry, man."

"'s fine. You'll come to dinner, yeah?"

I look at him sideways, aghast by the suggestion. "Uh, no?"

"Why the fuck not? It's...sorted! Come on, dude!"

"It's

being sorted,

right here. In my room. I'm not going out there."

Henry's openly frowning when he lifts from the sofa. "Like

hell

you're staying in this room the rest of the trip. What, you're that desperate to avoid him? Why?"

"I--"

...can't tell him. There's no way I can tell him. I can't tell him I'll fall to pieces like a house of cards should Zakhar so much as

breathe on me.

I manufacture some excuses, but Henry won't hear them. He's adamant about my joining the guys for dinner in another of the ship's onboard restaurants, as well as whatever's on the agenda for tomorrow. I can't tell if he's worried for me, or uncomfortable with spending the rest of the trip under Charlie's thumb.

I'm not sure how Henry feels about Charlie, whether or not he actually likes the guy. I know he's grateful for the unsolicited support during their time at Harvard, but maybe he never expected that friendship to last through graduation. They have next to nothing in common, not even their sense of morality. Henry's a borderline communist, while the Kaisers are all descendants of our original bourgeoisie. If I had to guess, he feels burdened by the relationship, but he's too damn nice to create and maintain any distance. Charlie's a pushy bastard.

Guilt twinges in my chest, and there's that

fucking

sense of loyalty again. The reason I came on this trip in the first place. Henry's trip. To spend time with Henry.

I'm almost positive we won't meet each other again.

But, it wouldn't hurt to redownload Duo Lingo.

--

The restaurant takes inspiration from the ancient tea rooms of Kyoto. Dark wood frames lead the eye to a traditional ceiling, adorned with a canopy of faux blossoms and festoon lights. It's a pan-asian experience: Japanese, Thai, Vietnamese, and Malaysian cuisine. Windows stretch from floor to ceiling, overlooking the sea, and I know to avoid the view. Cutting my eyes to the ground as soon as we bypass the host's podium. Blessedly, our party is too big for window seating. We're sat in the back under the pink umbrella of a large, fake tree.

I'm the furthest thing from hungry, wracked with nausea. With the ship doing its damndest to backtrack from Portofino to Monte Carlo, the wobbling of the deck underfoot is more pronounced. Even sitting, I feel like a bobber knocked around by the waves. At the very least, it isn't uncomfortable to sit. In less than a day, the soreness has dissipated, and I'm glad for my resilience when all other redeemable qualities have turned deserter. In times as tumultuous as this, it's good to be young and sturdy. There are questions and impish jokes about my sudden hibernation, but it's easily explained away. My sensitive stomach is a built-in excuse better than any.

The guys ramble on about their leisurely day in Portofino, an idyllic village on the Riviera coastline. Encircled by boxy, pastel houses and a turquoise harbor brimmed with opulent yachts, they swam, ate, drank, and spent Charlie's money without shame. Barely listening, I don't feel jealous or regretful. How many pretty towns can you gorge yourself in before they're all bleeding together? Before it gets boring?

Or, maybe I just can't shake this shitty mood.

Collectively, I think I managed four bites, and there's a spike of nausea with each. Henry eyes me from across the table, but I can't bring myself to reassure him in any meaningful way. I came to dinner,

like he asked.

"God, aren't you hot in that sweatshirt?"

"Kit, you're not gonna eat, man?"

"Hey, I'll take what he doesn't want!"

"I'm sure he's ruined his appetite by marathoning through those lollipops." Charlie scoffs. "And his

teeth, Christ.

How much medicine can they possibly contain? Just the smell is enough to develop prediabetes."

Snapping to my feet, I excuse myself, "bathroom."

The meal's basically done, all courses served, so I don't feel too bad about abandoning the restaurant altogether. The goal is to return to my suite, because where the fuck else would I go? The elevator bay is busier than usual, however. I join those waiting, but the evenings see a higher rate of comings and goings. The lift must be stopping off at every deck to deposit passengers and pick up new ones, because it's

full

of people when it finally pauses for us. A few trickle off, and a few more replace them.

Losing patience, I turn for the stairwell across the way. Descending seven decks via the stairs seems less of a hassle than waiting another few minutes for the elevator, but it's all wishful thinking.

Seasickness is the biggest cunt.

I make it down three sets of stairs before temporarily giving up. My stomach is lodged in my throat, bile jettisoning up with every thudding step. Yanking a lollipop from my pocket, I drop to my ass and pray for the candy to work miracles. I don't count the minutes as they pass me, and I don't add the passing people to my tally. The longer I sit, the nausea wanes, and I'm left with a bone-deep exhaustion. I'm so tired, and I'm so desperate to

forget.

Right now, I'd give anything for a natural, fading memory. Most people can't recall what they had for lunch the day before without straining, and what a luxury that must be.

I'm scared last night will never leave the forefront of my mind, a flash in the pan that's burned me deep enough to scar the bone. I'm scared I'm

different

for it.

And like God's listening in, eager to stir the pot--

I smell him before I hear him, and I hear him before I see him.

That rich, warm scent gusts up the stairwell, overwhelming my olfactory senses. I can barely taste the strong, artificial cherry of the lollipop through it. He isn't heavy handed with the fragrance, but everything about his presence projects loudly into the world. That much is enough to make me lock up, the rigidity of prey desperate to go unseen. His low voice muddles into existence seconds later, and he's coming from the left on the floor below. Where I sit, halfway up the second set of stairs to the next floor, I won't be seen unless he intends to climb them.

I hope to God that's not his intention.

He's speaking in

Italian,

quiet but not hushed. It's a one-sided conversation, and there are no other footfalls besides his own. He's on the phone, and in an empty corridor, it's all too easy to eavesdrop. I almost can't make it out through the roar of blood in my head, terrified at the possibility of him turning for the stairs. Beyond his voice and steady gait, there are other telltale sounds. The faint rustling of clothes, then a rhythmic smack. Relief bursts in my chest, and the tension drains from my extremities. It's a pack of cigarettes beaten against his palm. He isn't coming upstairs, but going outside to smoke.

My mind races to translate what little I heard, and it can only be the details of a meeting. He names a place, a time, and an exchange. Exchanging what, it isn't clear. He doesn't explicitly mention it, which means those tidbits are too sensitive to reiterate aloud. The hydraulic hiss of the door jolts me out of my tangled thoughts, and Zakhar's baritone disappears with him. Onto the outer deck. Only his cologne lingers, a ghostly reminder.