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The motel ice machine rumbled like a dying animal as Michael shuffled back down the hallway, his flip-flops slapping against stained carpet. He stopped outside room 114, fist raised to knock—then hesitated. Through the thin door, he could hear them.
Dewd's breathy whimpers. Tuffnar's guttural groans. The rhythmic creak of abused box springs.
His stomach twisted. He should leave. He would leave. Right after he—
The door swung open.
Tuffnar stood there, shirtless and glistening, his chest heaving. Behind him, Dewd lay sprawled across the wrecked bedsheets, bite marks blooming across his doughy thighs. The air smelled like sex and spicy nugget sauce.
Michael's mouth went dry. "I, uh. Forgot my laminated photo."
Tuffnar didn't move. "You watched through the peephole for fifteen minutes."
A beat. The neon vacancy sign flickered outside.
"...Yeah," Michael admitted, his fingers worrying the crusted edge of his hoodie pocket.
Dewd sat up, wincing slightly. "You always do this. Lurk at the edges of shit you're too scared to join."
Michael's face burned. He could feel the old jealousy rising like bile—but beneath it, something worse. Wanting.
Tuffnar surprised them all by stepping aside. "You coming in or what?"
The mattress groaned under Michael's weight as he perched on the edge, knees tight together. Dewd's hand found his—greasy, trembling.
"You reek of backyard dirt and unwashed dreams," Dewd murmured, not unkindly.
Michael's throat clicked when he swallowed. "I know."
Tuffnar flopped down on Michael's other side, his warm bulk pressing against him. "We're all fucked up here."
And wasn't that the truth? Three grown men, shaped like cautionary tales, bound together by a loneliness so deep it had calcified into something resembling love.
Michael let out a shuddering breath as Dewd's fingers laced with his. The laminated photo of Shondo crinkled forgotten in his pocket.
Outside, the world kept spinning. But here, in this dim motel room that smelled of regret and fryer grease, something fragile and real took root between them.
Tuffnar pressed a kiss to Michael's sweaty temple. Dewd squeezed his hand.
And for the first time in years, Michael didn't feel hungry.
