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CHAPTER ELEVEN

ELLIOT

Hank steps through the forest purposefully, shaking a stick at the ground in front of him to scare away snakes. I follow behind, plants brushing at my bare legs. In the forest, a canopy of towering trees casts us in shadows while rain trickles through the branches.

“Only step where you can see,” he says over his shoulder as he leads us through shrubs. “And keep an eye out for—oh! Ferns!”

Hank squats down, and my eyes dance down his solid build. His boxer briefs are loose, but I see enough of the shape of his ass to appreciate it.

“Shoot,” he says as he stands. “No fiddleheads yet.”

I raise a smile. “Shoot,” I agree.

He’s pretty cute, in his geeky, wilderness man way.

Hank gestures ahead. “We’ll follow this curve around, keep an eye out for mushrooms and maybe some berry bushes.”

“You mention berries, I’ll follow you anywhere.”

Hank chuckles and takes off again, leading us through the forest. Now that I’ve noticed his ass, it’s hard to stop noticing it, and my eyes keep flitting back for another glance as we move. I manage to scoop up some violets in a sun spot, and Hank plucks more mushrooms.

I have to squeeze close behind him to move through a crowded, rocky bit, and his scent is earthy, surprisingly comforting. I catch myself taking a huff.

Gathering algae was almost fun, except for the fact that we’re trying not to starve. Fear for my life aside, splashing around in the water and working on a project with Hank felt good.

Everything feels better when we’re actually collaborating instead of fighting. And now that I’m giving myself a minute to fully appreciate Hank, I’m finding there’s a lot to like about him.

The relatively flat forest gives way ahead of us, becoming steeper and jagged as it turns into a mountainous cliff. He slows as we approach, then points up ahead. “Look,” he says.

Slightly up the mountain, probably eight or nine feet above us, a bush shines with red berries. There’s some flat ground around it, blanketed with violets.

I gasp and grab Hank’s arm. “There are berries! It’s a whole feast!”

Hank squints at the bush. “But too high to reach.”

“Just barely. We can climb on each other,” I say. “I can climb on you. Or you can climb on me.”

I walk over through the gently falling rain to inspect, and Hank follows.

“Slippery,” he points out. “But there are a few decent holds.”

We look up at the berries together.

“I could reach that big rock,” I say, pointing.

“With a heft from me,” Hank agrees. He grabs a rock with his good hand and scrambles up a little himself before stepping back down. “Let’s give it a try. But if it feels like you could slip, abandon plan.”

I nod in agreement, and Hank gets in position, squatting his legs wide as he leans his weight against the cliff, shoulders braced. I wiggle my arms to loosen up and step forward, crawling up his body.

“Uh, erm,” Hank grunts as he catches me with one arm.

I grab the mossy rock above and steady myself with a vine, wobbling in Hank’s arms. “You okay?” I ask.

My junk is totally in his face, I realize.

“Fine!” he grunts out, and I manage to pull myself up. With another little scramble, I’m at the berries. My bare feet land between the violets, and there’s a sapling tree budding out next to me.

When I look down at Hank, he gives me a short wave. “Good!”

“Good!” I feel the tree, which is bendy. With a firm push, I’m able to force it down, sending the branches over the side. “Would your one hand be enough to climb if you have this to grab?”

Hank pulls on the branches, and I steady the tree as he scrambles up to join me. When I can, I grab his elbow and pull him onto the flat ground, leaving us pressed close between the bush and more rocks.

I pluck a handful of violets. “We made it!” I say cheerfully.

Hank wipes rain off his face before he rolls off me. “This is an excellent find. With the haul we already collected, we should be set for the rest of the day.” He plucks a berry and pops it in his mouth, then plucks another for me. “Sweet salmonberry.”

I roll it across my lip. “I’m going to be so sad if this tastes like a fish.” When I take it into my mouth and bite into the juicy sweetness, though, it’s like tasting springtime.

“Fuck yeah.”

Hank and I eat a few berries and groan. When he licks his fingers off, I watch the way his tongue works, my attention captured by it.

He’s got some dirt and sticks on his arm, so I brush him off.

Hank grunts. “I feel a mess.” He pulls his shirt off, then drops a berry onto it. “What I wouldn’t do for a shave.”

“On the plus side, you look great with stubble,” I tell him. He’s quickly approaching a light beard, which grows in dark and thick. “You’re pulling off rugged.”

Hank scoffs and looks a little embarrassed. “I hate having stubble,” he says. “And it comes so damn fast.”

I rub my face. “My beard is slow,” I tell him. “But I’ve never really tried growing it out. This already matches my previous record length.”

The rain slows, barely a trickle, and Hank glances up.

I study his features, the square cut of his jaw and the curve of his cheeks. He’s quite handsome.

He swallows. When Hank squirms again, I decide to stop thinking about his face and turn my attention to plucking violets.

I angle our bodies carefully, but as Hank picks berries with one hand, our limbs and torsos rub together, brushing by.

“Everything feels kind of unreal to me,” I say.

Hank nods. “Agreed. My life and the civilized world seem infinitely far away, but we can’t be more than twenty miles from Seattle. Or, at least, I hope we aren’t.”

“Weird. Clients are probably emailing me about the commissions I owe them.” I blink a few times. “Email!” I say again to stress my point.

Hank lowers his voice. “I’m unavailable as I’m stranded on a rocky cliff, but trust that this email is received, and I will get back to you as soon as I’m able to reach the electric grid.”

I laugh and fix my briefs, which are twisted.

“What’s your illustration style like?” Hank asks as we harvest.

“Extremely detailed and immersive,” I say. “I spend a lot of time studying old illustration trends and techniques. It helps feed my imagination. Picture lots of action, story, vivid contrasts, and crisp lines. The type of thing you can look at for hours, because I know that some of my clients do.”

Hank nods. I can tell he’s still trying to decide what he thinks about my work, but it’s nice that he’s asking. Some people immediately dismiss it as frivolous.

“I’ll be curious to see some of it when we can,” Hank says.

“It’s got to be fascinating, right? I don’t mean to suggest anything about your clients or about you.

I have a decent grasp of kink and sexual politics, although that’s not my world.

But seeing so many personal and, frankly, odd aspects of human sexuality.

It must be… fascinating,” he says again.

I nod. “It is, totally. There’s something new every day. Most porn is the same toxic crap over and over. I get to offer something totally different. I celebrate all kinds of bodies and desires, and I don’t have to play into all of the old stuff.”

Hank pauses to rub his hand.

“Today is Sunday, right?” I ask. “What would you be doing today if you weren’t stranded here with me?”

He coughs out a laugh.

“What?”

“Hiking,” he says. “I’d be somewhere very similar to this, and I’d be hiking and taking notes on what wildflowers I found, and which migratory birds.”

I laugh. I like the image that jumps to mind of Hank in his hiking clothes and boots, tromping around a forest with a little notebook.

“Did you ever think about being a forest ranger or something like that?”

He runs his hand through the branches, looking for more fruit. “No. I chose a career that would provide a bit more advancement opportunity. I’m also quite good with numbers, and I find checking all the boxes to be satisfying. I like my passions to be just for me, not for my job.”

“Cool. That makes sense.”

I’ve got lots of my own issues with my dad and his world, but I check myself to not put those hangups on Hank. Anyway, I’m enjoying talking with him while we forage.

An energy passes between us.

My body aches, but it feels nice to be close to him, nearly naked in the last drizzles of rain. We’re both sliding a tiny bit closer with each breath, and heat flows through me.

A different kind of desire wakes up in my body. Maybe it’s primal or something, driven by the desperation of our circumstances. This clearly is neither the time or the place to think about sex, but touching Hank feels good, and I want more of it.

My heartbeat kicks up. We’re all alone on the island.

Just us.

Two men trying to survive.

Hank catches my eye, and he smiles.

The sun emerges through the trees, and bird song erupts in the forest, chirping trills and looping melodies. As it picks up, filling the air, Hank stands, steadying himself against the cliff.

“Sparrows,” he says quietly. “And goldfinch.”

I stand, joining him. “The clouds are clearing,” I say, and as I do, a much louder noise erupts from nearby, loudly grunting squawks.

I raise an eyebrow. “You swore there weren’t any island monsters.”

Hank scoffs. “There aren’t,” he says, and a moment later, the strangest black birds descend on the cliff in a flurry of movement, croaking at us. I instinctively grab Hank to steady myself, but still nearly tumble off the edge.

Their black feathers glimmer and reflect like the sequins on my favorite pants.

The birds have punk hairdos, white spiky stripes on the sides of their heads, and they land on rocky perches while they thrum and gargle and honk.

Some kick their legs and step from side to side; others violently flutter in place.

Hank chuckles to himself as he holds me. “It’s some kind of cormorant, I believe. And this looks like a mating ritual.”

One near to us lets out a belching, frog-like noise as it vibrates.

“Damn,” I say. “Impressive mating ritual.”

Hank and I catch eyes, and before I can resist it, I give him a flirty smile.

He lets out a surprised cough, and another flock of small brown birds soars past us, disappearing into the trees as they call out and sing, drawing my gaze away.

The island is coming alive under the blue sky, and sunlight reflects off the wet leaves around us.

I turn back to Hank. “The storm’s over.”

“Seems so,” he says, cormorants croaking behind him.

I try to get my head back on straight. I’ve realized Hank is hot, and my body might have bonded to him in some sort of disaster libido situation, but that’s no big deal.

We’ve got berries and a sunny sky, and it’s not like we have time to consider something like sex, let alone to act on it. I’ll just push the horny thoughts aside, and laugh about it all later.

“Time to return with our haul and build that fire,” he says, and the birds call out in agreement.