Page 2 of That Defining Moment

“I’m in bed,” he said. “Being a recluse. What about you?”

“Woolies,” Hamish said. “Picking up stuff for dinner. Reckon I’ll just grab a roast chook and make a wrap.” There was the distant shuffle of paper bags. “You? Any dinner plans?”

“Room service, I guess.”

“Room service?” Hamish’s voice lifted with genuine incredulity. “Lysander Huxley, ordering room service. The man who dragged me into a street stall in Chiang Rai at midnight because you needed to find out what pad kra pao jing jok was?”

“It was delicious.”

“I’m fairly sure you made me eat bat as well, which makes me feel vaguely criminal about not declaring that to Customs when I got home. I think that meant I broke all sorts of Aussie biosecurity laws, so cheers for that. Room service isn’t you.”

Lysander pressed his thumb into the corner of the pillowcase and traced the stitching. He could hear the bustle of the supermarket behind Hamish’s voice, the clacking of trolley wheels and someone’s kid shrieking about yoghurt, the whole mundane orchestra of an afternoon in Brunswick East.

“Things are different without you,” he said. “It’s not as fun.”

“Lysander,” Hamish said, his voice dropping to a private register. “First of all, I need you to know that your video was incredibly hot. Genuinely spectacular. It was slightly unfortunate that I opened it while standing a few feet from a mother and her kids, but I had my AirPods in, so we’re all good.” He chuckled, and the sound of it made Lysander’s chest ache. “Next time, though, if you’re feeling lonely and you want to talk, just know that a simple call will do. But also, and I must emphasise this, I will never say no to naughty videos from you. Each one will go straight into my wank bank.”

“You gonna make a deposit tonight?” Lysander asked.

“Multiple. Now, tell me about your day, Sander.”

So Lysander told him about the tipsy-tubing plans, the god-like Swedes, the way Stanis’s hand had felt on him, then the fact that he’d bailed thirty minutes before the meet-up and come back to the hotel to film himself for Hamish instead. He left nothing out. Hamish never judged; he just asked a follow-up question.

“He sounds fit,” Hamish said at the end of it all.

“He’s like if you combined Alexander Skarsgård’s face with Gustaf’s body and Bill’s mouth.”

“I don’t know who any of those people are.”

“They’re brothers, Hamish. They’re Swedish, and they’re all devastatingly attractive in slightly different configurations. I need you to google them immediately.”

“I’m in Woolies holding a roast chicken and my banana.”

“Then put the chicken down and google them right now. The point is that Stanis is essentially a composite Skarsgård, which is about as good as it gets, genetically speaking.”

“Right. So then the problem with Stanis is…?”

“The problem is that he doesn’t have a beard, Hamish.”

There was a pause. “That’s very flattering,” Hamish said.

“It’s not flattery. It’s a genuine obstacle. I’ve been ruined for smooth faces and I’m holding you personally responsible.”

“I’ll add it to my IMDb page. Ruined a twenty-seven-year-old male omega for all other men due to tickly beard and butternut squash sized cock. That’ll get the ratings up.” The self-checkout beeped its approval. “What else did you do today besides standing up Scandinavian sex gods and sending me pornography?”

Lysander told him about Janet, the street cat who’d adopted him outside the 7-Eleven on his third day in Pai and now appeared at his ankles every evening. She liked roti with condensed milk, which Lysander bought from the night market stall on the corner, and she tolerated being held only if Lysander kept completely still and didn’t try to stroke behind her ears.

“She sounds like every cat I’ve ever met,” Hamish said. “Deeply conditional with her love.”

“She’s teaching me boundaries.”

“God knows you need the practice.”

By the time they’d been talking for forty minutes, Lysander was smiling into his pillow.

“Right,” Hamish said. “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to get off that bed, put on something that isn’t pants, and go out for dinner.”

“I don’t want to go out for dinner.”