Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Toby
I’ve had some extremely awkward endings to hookups before.
Like the time I got my foot stuck in my trousers while trying to make a suave exit and faceplanted on the floor or when I tried to impress my date by cooking her breakfast but ended up setting off the smoke alarm and evacuating her entire building.
But every other incident pales in significance compared to the awkwardness hovering over this hookup with Harry.
I’d assumed Harry was pansexual, like me, or maybe bisexual. But he’s telling me he’s gay? That he’s been suppressing his sexuality for so long? It’s hard to believe.
I can’t help feeling sad that he believes that to succeed in the Conservative Party’s politics, he needs to hide who he is attracted to.
But the awkwardness currently engulfing us like a bad stench doesn’t come from me feeling sorry for him. It comes from the fact I basically just offered him sex on a plate, and he turned it down. Especially as he’s choosing no sex over sex with me.
I try to pretend my flushed cheeks are from the heat of the growing fire.
I shouldn’t be ashamed. I’m an adult male with a healthy libido. I don’t need to like someone to have sex with them. And if the animosity between Harry and me manifests in hot sexual chemistry, hey, maybe we should take that as a silver lining?
But no. True to form, Harry is choosing to deny himself.
I can’t deny the sting of rejection right now. It sucks to be rejected by anyone, but coming from Harry Matheson, it’s ten times worse.
Along with the sting of rejection, I also have a pang of straightforward regret. Because, weirdly, even though it was just hurried hand jobs, what just transpired with Harry was up there with the hottest sexual encounters I’ve ever had.
There was something about the intensity in how Harry kissed me, touched me, that set it apart.
And now that I know I’m not helping him cheat on his wife, I’m definitely open to a repeat. Because I meant what I said. Being out here has reminded me of the importance of enjoying every moment.
I try to adhere to that principle by ripping my thoughts away from Harry and enjoying the simple pleasure of feeding the crackling fire, watching it grow. There is something primitively satisfying about watching a fire grow.
“If you’re all right tending the fire, I can go wash our trousers in the river,” Harry says stiffly.
“Um…okay.” I undo the button and shuck off my trousers, handing them to Harry who is standing there deliberately averting his gaze. It’s not like there’s much to see. My coat is long enough to cover all the good bits.
Harry hands me a survival blanket, and I wrap it around my legs.
“I’ll be back soon. Keep the fire going,” he instructs.
“Of course. I live to obey you, as usual.”
Harry shoots me a look of irritation, but I’m fairly sure there’s some amusement there as well as he stalks off.
I continue my mission of feeding the fire.
But as it grows bigger, sitting this close to the fire with a survival blanket wrapped around my naked legs becomes problematic. Simply put, it becomes a sauna for my genitalia.
So I whip it off and sit on the survival blanket instead. Luckily, this close to the fire, my lower legs are warm enough without any covering.
“Um…what are you doing?” Harry’s voice sounds strangled as he approaches from behind.
I turn around to face him. He’s clutching our wet trousers, his own bottom half wrapped in a survival blanket.
“Are you seriously going to tell me off for not adhering to your standards of decency?” I ask.
Harry swallows. “I’m not reprimanding you for anything. I’m just suggesting it would be a shame if that particular part of you suffered any damage by not being protected.”
I gape at him. “I’d say the lack of food is making me hallucinate because it almost seems like you just praised my dick.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” he says.
Harry Matheson joking?
“What head am I not letting it go to?” I raise my eyebrows with a smirk.
“Toby,” he says, his voice stern.
“Harry,” I mimic back.
He ignores me and places our trousers near the fire, stuffing pine needles inside to help them dry quickly.
I have a brief moment of disorientation as I watch him. Because this is Harry, leader of the Conservative Party, with the start of a patchy beard, hair that looks like it’s staging a rebellion against the concept of gravity, and now a survival blanket wrapped around him in a makeshift skirt.
It’s only been four days since our plane crashed. It’s hard to believe that a week ago, I was facing a perfectly groomed Harry Matheson across the Chamber.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
Harry sits on the opposite side of the fire, still wrapped in his survival blanket, and I wait to see how long it takes before he realizes what the equation of survival blanket plus groin equals.
Sure enough, after a few minutes, he starts squirming uncomfortably.
“Getting slightly warm under the blanket?” I suggest archly.
Harry is apparently much better than I am at tolerating physical discomfort for the sake of decorum because he doesn’t remove it despite his face growing redder.
“If we are pausing here for a while, we really should think about trying to find other food sources,” Harry says.
His comment rips my thoughts away from contemplating exactly what is happening to Harry Matheson’s groin right now. Which is probably a good thing.
“I’m all about introducing some variety to our diet,” I reply.
Harry retreats from the fire and bends over the survival kit to unzip and rifle through it.
“I’ve seen some mushrooms and berries in the forest, but I don’t know enough to be confident I could avoid the poisonous species, so I think fishing is our best option,” he says.
“Mushrooms and berries are not a risk worth taking,” I agree.
“So I guess we’re trying our hand at fishing,” Harry says as he gets out the fishing line and hooks.
Seeing Harry so confidently construct a fishing line has resentment surging inside me.
Fishing is one of those activities in the UK where the class divide often shows up, especially when it comes to fly fishing. The best fishing spots are frequently on private land and only accessible if you personally know the landowners or are willing to pay a hefty fee.
Unlike Harry, I didn’t spend my childhood roaming the countryside of England. I spent my childhood in a two-bedroom flat in Croydon, often left alone as my mother worked two jobs to support us.
If we need video game expertise or kicking a ball around a muddy field out here, I’m your guy.
I’m used to being confident and capable. But out here in the wilderness, I feel as useful as an umbrella in a hurricane.
I’m not accustomed to relying on someone else to provide for me. And the idea it’s Harry Matheson I’m relying on is almost more unpalatable than the idea of choking down another energy bar.
Harry doesn’t seem to be having a similar existential crisis about our fishing expedition. He securely ties the hook onto the piece of nylon and then looks up at me.
“We need to acquire some bait.”
“What type of bait?”
“I admit my knowledge of Nordic fish species is rather limited, but assuming they are similar to British fish, we should look for grubs.”
“Right. Let’s add grub hunting to our fun wilderness bonding activities,” I say. “I can’t wait to update my CV when I get home.”
Harry and I move through the clearing with the precision and focus of a military operation. It’s a weird feeling of competitiveness that has me pulling apart a broken log to find grubs before Harry does while holding a survival blanket in place around my legs.
The rotting log is slimy under my fingers. As I peel back the layers of decaying wood, I’m greeted by a wriggling mass of pale, squishy bodies. I’ve never been so happy to see something disgusting in my life.
I pluck a fat, juicy grub from its wooden lair, holding it aloft like a trophy. “Will this do?”
I might not know how to fish, but I’m fairly decent at hunting down maggot-like creatures. I’m sure there’s a parallel there to be made about having to deal with maggot-like creatures in Parliament.
“That’s perfect,” Harry says, and I try to stop the flush of pride that goes through me. I mean, I’ve simply pulled apart a rotting log, not won a Nobel Peace Prize.
Although, right now, grubs are actually far more useful to us than a Nobel Prize would be.
I scavenge some more out of the decaying log.
“Some of the grubs could be potentially edible as well. A good source of protein,” Harry muses.
I look down at the squirming grubs in my hand. “Do you know for sure whether they are safe to eat?”
“No, I don’t know for sure.”
“I mean, I’ve already proven I’m not discerning about what I allow in my mouth, but I might draw the line at grubs.”
Harry’s forehead crumples. “What do you mean you’re not discerning about what you allow in your mouth?”
“Well, your tongue was in my mouth earlier today, wasn’t it?” I say.
Somehow, joking makes me feel better. This is the only way I’m going to cope with our encounter and Harry’s subsequent rejection—by playing the carefree, laissez-faire Toby, who will use the interaction to score points against Harry.
And sure enough, my words cause a flush to go up his neck and spread across his face, tinging his cheeks pink.
“You didn’t seem to mind at the time,” he rallies.
“Oh, trust me, I wasn’t complaining. In fact, it was the first time I was in total agreement with what your mouth was doing. As I’ve already said, I’m up for exploring other ways your mouth can actually be useful.”
And there it is. A pulse of heat in Harry’s icy blue eyes. Unmistakable. Unmissable.
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
“Shall we just focus on getting this line in the water?” he asks.
“Sure. I’m all about getting our rods wet.”
This time, I don’t get a chance to clock whether there’s heat in Harry’s eyes as he’s too busy rolling them.
Our trousers are now dry enough to put back on. Harry studiously averts his gaze again as I’m getting dressed.