0800 Hours [slash]

0800 Hours: Recording #019

Click.

"0800 hours, one day since I had my first drink. One day since Cye fucked off."

A small sniffle registers on the microphone, the sound timid, a kitten curled in on itself.

"... Not gonna lie, I'm more than a little freaked out right now."

They pause, worry lingering on the cold whisper of the rain.

"It's fucking pouring out there. He didn't take his jacket."

The speaker exhales deeply – it's a dry, choking sound, the ragged kind of breath that burns at the back of the throat.

"He didn't take anything with him at all, actually."

The rain continues to hiss and fizzle.

"...I just hope he's alright."

The pounding rain is lonely and loud.

"I don't know what I'd do if Cye got Infected, to be honest. I mean, I know what I should do – abandon ship and fuck off to Beith. That's probably exactly what he would suggest, the cunt. And like, I guess I'd get over it. Eventually. You kind of have to, apocalypse, etcetera..."

An exhausted sigh accompanies the downpour.

"...It was a lot easier to be nonchalant about the end of the world when I had nothing to lose."

The resigned chink of a glassbottle opening, it's contents guzzled with a dispirited gulp.

And another.

And another.

"How much of our tender do you plan to consume before we reach Beith, you alkie?"

"Cye!"

"Oof!"

A thump as two bodies hit the ground.

"You're back."

The voice, so despondent before, is hotly embroiled with affection.

"... I guess."

"You're a dick. I was really fucking worried about you. And you look like a drowned rat."

"... We need to talk, Cameron."

"Could you not have come back like three bottles ago? I feel like I might throw up if I sit up too fast."

A disbelieving, breathless laughter.

"How much you had? What have you had?"

"I don't know. It tasted like dead things though."

A crisp bark of laughter escapes someone's throat before they settle into an edgy, anticipating silence.

"You can't just kiss me because I'm gay, y'know."

"What?"

"...You heard me."

An incensed squawk.

"Ok, that is so not why I kissed you. I'm not like that guy from before, ok? I genuinely –"

"It's the end of the fucking world, and you haven't seen a girl in months. I get it. You're frustrated, I'm easy. Convenient. On hand."

"Cye, what the fuck –"

"But that doesn't mean you can just fuck around with me whenever you're feeling fucking frisky!"

The line sounds rehearsed at the start, but becomes unravelled at the end, the pitch rising like a hot air balloon.

"What!? I'm not like, using you as a substitute for a girl or something, you idiot. How low even is your self-esteem? I wanted to kiss you, you absolute fucking muppet!"

A startled little squeal escapes closed lips as they're suddenly smashed against another set. The sounds of a scuffle dominate the landscape for a moment, before a stinging slap emerges from the racket.

"Stop!"

"Ow!"

A few laboured breaths as their heartbeats thunder in their ears, before a preparatory inhalation.

"Look Cam, seriously, you don't have to do this out of some misguided attempt at pity, or whatever. Just 'cause I'm gay doesn't mean I'll fuck anything with a dick, ok? You're sexually frustrated, I get it! Go release your sexual tension with a wank or something, I don't care. But don't think you can play around with my fucking feelings just 'cause you're fucking hormonal, you complete tit. I am done being an experiment!"

The pair are plunged into a frigid silence as the full weight of this confession comes crashing down on them.

"Cye, I –"

"Fuck, sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you. And I'll sleep outside the tent from now on, ok? I don't want to make you uncomfortable or anything, but I can't help being a fucking faggot. Shit, Cam, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry –"

"For fuck's sake, you've apologised more in the last thirty seconds than you have in our whole friendship."

A self-depreciative, watery chuckles peeks out over the sniffling.

"... I'm kind of a shit person, I guess."

"Oh for the love of – Cye, I know you've got some hang-up about yourself. I know you're convinced that I just want a quick release, or a shag, or whatever. But I don't. I want you. Specifically you. And no one but you. Dickhead."

This pause is different from the one before; more thoughtful, more pensive, more hesitant.

"... You don't mean that."

"Argh! You fucking tit. Why do you insist on making things difficult for me?! Look, that guy you were with before? The one who called you worthless and abandoned you? He's a fucking idiot. And he can't even begin to comprehend what he gave up. Who he gave up. I guess what I'm trying to say is: I like, love you or whatever. Something like that."

"..."

"Cye? Look mate, it doesn't even matter, we can blame this all on the drink tomorrow and – mmph!"

There's an abrupt shift in the atmosphere – suddenly it's all feathered, breathy moans, and fingers curling quietly in cold grass, and wet, desperate kissing. In the midst of the end of the world, this is the sound of a smile.

They break apart with a yearning whine.

"... I'd apologise again, but I wouldn't really mean it."

"Please spare me your terrible sense of humour and fucking kiss me again."

...

"Ah! Do that again."

"... That?"

"No, no, the thing with the neck – that, that, oh my god, that."

...

"Hah..."

...

"Ah, fuck."

...

"Oh shit, I think I've left this recording."

"You've what?"

"Ow! Wait no, never mind, it's fine, don't stop t–"

Click.