Page 74 of Ship Happens

“You’re shuffling a lot over there,” Jacob says, eyeing Owen suspiciously.

“Yeah, the couch is . . .” Owen reaches awkwardly behind him to fluff the pillow again. “Uncomfortable.”

Jacob motions with his hands. “Move over.”

“Huh?”

“Give me the pillow.”

Owen sits up, handing Jacob the pillow as he was told and watching as Jacob sets it on his thigh. And when Owen doesn’t move to switch positions, he pats it, a gentle invitation to come and lay his head on Jacob’s lap.

He shouldn’t.

But he wants to. Really badly.

It’s not even the THC that’s running through his system; he wishes that he could blame the weed, but he can’t. This is all him.

Owen turns carefully, too aware of the pain, then lowers his head to the pillow slowly with Jacob’s help. It’s a familiar comfort that takes over Owen as he settles against Jacob and the warmth of his solid body.

“How’s that?” Jacob asks, as if the question doesn’t mean anything at all.

Owen wishes he could read Jacob’s mind, figure out what exactly is going on in that head of his, what game it is he’s playing. Then Owen has to wonder if there’s any game at all, if maybe it’s unfair to think that Jacob must have some ulterior motive.

“Nice,” Owen tells him. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Jacob seems to relax, which tells Owen that this is okay.

Perfectly and completely okay.

Just for tonight, Owen thinks to himself. He wants to get what he wants.

He doesn’t stop Jacob when his hand comes to rest on the side of his head, nor does he stop Jacob when he starts to play with his hair, his fingers massaging through it slowly, lulling Owen further down, down, down . . .

Until he stops fighting the urge to keep his eyes open.

His heavy lids closing, he falls into a comfortable slumber.

A gentle nudging wakes Owen.

He recalls his dream for a moment—something about a snake bite, and maybe RuPaul—but by the time he remembers one fading detail, the rest of it slips away from him. And then he remembers where he is, the shadows being cast inside the suite almost changing the shape of the room.

“Owen?” Jacob’s voice is quiet.

“Hmm?” Owen rubs his knee, stretching his legs. There’s a new tightness from where he’s been lying on his side.

“The lights,” Jacob says, a little louder this time.

“What are you talking about?” Owen grumbles, only half the words intelligible thanks to his exhaustion.

“Let’s go look!” Jacob nudges him again, helping Owen to sit upright before he stands up himself, offering a hand to Owen. Owen stares at it, like Jacob’s hand is some foreign object he’s never seen before. He wants to blame the slowness of his reaction on his fatigue, the painkillers still calming the worst parts of how he feels.

But it’s not just that.

Taking Jacob’s hand feels . . . feels like so much, and also nothing at all. It feels like another boundary, a cliff that Owen is standing on the precipice of.

And what if he wants to fall?

He takes Jacob’s hand carefully when he motions again, their palms sliding together, the calluses on Jacob’s hand grinding against Owen’s smooth skin as he helps Owen stand. Unfolding his cane in case it’s needed, Owen lets Jacob lead him around the couch. Before either of them step outside, they can see the lights glowing in the sky. Streaks of green and purple flow like the waves of the ocean they’re lighting up.