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There’s someone in his tent.
When he wakes up he doesn’t realize it at first. It’s still dark out and shadows are moving faintly with the rustle of fabric, the quiet breaths of another person barely registering—it might very well be a dream, so Josh doesn’t move and simply watches.
The silent shadow moves closer, trips over something, cursing softly. A familiar voice, Josh thinks, blinking slowly as he watches the clumsy wanderer edge towards him with a tranquil sort of curiosity.
“Josh?” the wanderer breathes and it reeks so much like alcohol that it actually shocks Josh out of his trance, face pulling into a mildly disgusted expression, though he does recognise the voice.
“Chris?”
“Hey—” Chris says, then giggles, as if he’s said something monumentally hilarious. “Hey, uhh, were you-were you sleeping?”
“Not anymore.”
“Ah,” His drunken friend nods very seriously before collapsing on the floor of Josh’s tent, next to his sleeping bag. “I’m not sleeping either. I’m awake right now.” he says wisely.
“I know.”
Chris turns his head to stare at Josh, who stares back quietly, raising his eyebrows in question. Then Chris says, “You have—your eyes. They’re pretty.”
And Josh, well, Josh goes back to his original assumption that this is a dream, almost hoping that it is, because if it isn’t… if it isn’t… he’s almost too scared to imagine what might happen if it isn’t.
Without waiting for an answer, Chris continues to babble on. He’s always been a chatty drunk. “I always… always thought that, about your eyes. Big, and all. They’re like… they’re grey-ish, but sometimes-sometimes they look a bit green. I really like your eyes. Is that weird?” He pauses, and in that pause, Josh can hear the beat of his own heart pounding against his ribs like drums. “Hey, Josh?”
“Yeah?” Josh whispers hoarsely.
“I really like…” He gestures a circle around his mouth. “…your lips. The shape, it’s nice.”
“Oh,” Josh doesn’t know—doesn’t understand it anymore. He must be getting desperate; he thought he reconciled himself with the idea of Chris being madly in love with Ashley a long time ago but it seems lying to himself is impossible after all. “Chris?”
“Hmm?” Chris is still staring at his lips with half-lidded eyes and Josh takes a deep breath to cool his head before he does… something.
“What about Ashley’s lips?”
Chris makes a noise of consideration.
“They’re nice,” he agrees, but seems to dismiss the idea immediately after because he’s staring at Josh again, and manages to roll onto his side now, inching a bit closer. Josh, trapped in his sleeping bag, has nowhere to go. “But yours are more… you know… good for… the mouth thing.”
Josh frowns in confusion, momentarily distracted. “What—”
Then Chris pushes forward, and kisses him.
He’s so stunned that he remains frozen in place as he feels Chris’ lips move, completely unconcerned with his lack of participation—too drunk to care, most likely—and Josh is completely unresponsive until he feels a slip of tongue and realizes with a jolt that yes, this is really happening, and no, Chris isn’t backing away in disgust when he kisses back.
Instead, Chris moans appreciatively, parting his lips for Josh to delve his tongue into his mouth and make him groan even louder. It’s sloppy and hot and wet and a mess of hands that don’t know where to start with touching, wanting it all at once, and god, this is actually fucking happening.
Before Josh even realizes it he has his arms around his friend’s waist and Chris has practically crawled into the sleeping bag with him, latched onto his mouth as if it’s a drug and he’s an addict. They’re pressed together and the heat is starting to get too much–Josh slows the mad hungry kisses down until they’re brief pecks of affection and they can catch their breaths before they suffocate.
Or, at least, Josh can catch his breath while Chris keeps kissing him, if not his mouth then every other inch of his face, up to his nose and cheeks and eyelids and brows and forehead, down again to his temples and jawline and neck until Josh squirms because Chris is painfully hard against him and this should not happen because one of them is too drunk to think and the other too selfish to be trusted.
But god, does he really want it to happen.
“Chris,” Josh hisses, and when Chris doesn’t stop, he frowns and practically slaps his hand over Chris’ mouth, groaning in frustration when Chris starts kissing his palm too. “Dude… just—keep it in your pants for a second!”
Chris’ eyes widen slightly in bemusement, making a questioning noise.
“You’re not sober,” Josh explains. “You need to stop.”
Chris makes a muffled noise of protest. Josh is too moody to deal with it.
“Just go to sleep, alright? We can… we’ll continue in the morning? Okay?”
Chris considers this and Josh slowly lowers his hand from his friend’s mouth. “Promise?” he slurs.
“Yeah,” Josh responds, even as he has a sinking feeling it won’t happen. “Promise.”
When the morning arrives and Josh wakes up again, fully expecting his sleeping bag to be devoid of another body, imagine his shock when he feels Chris still curled up against him, breath warm against the back of his neck and an arm slung around his waist.
When Josh, admittedly freaking out a little, tries to move, the arm around him tugs him back–and the next three words that come out of Chris’ mouth are the best words Josh will ever hear:
“You promised, remember?”