ocean boulevard | 5sos | michael clifford

xii.

chapter twelve.

"You made that joke before, you know."

"What joke?" I ask absentmindedly, finishing the handful of berries Michael passed me earlier. I'm feeling a lot better now, my temperature apparently gone, and Michael's faith in hope restored.

"Not God, just Payton," he says, smiling.

I press my hands against the soil and channel my energy into my palms and feet, pushing myself off so that at last, I'm crouching. "Oh."

Without a word, Michael gets up and offers a hand, which I accept gratefully, and before I know it, I'm on my feet for what feels like the first time in forever. Still, Michael looks at me cautiously, evaluating me, and decides that he isn't going to risk me falling and hurting myself, so we hobble on like that, side by side, my weight pressed slightly against his arm for support.

"Stop," I say after a while, when it dawns upon me that he's weak too. Carefully, I unravel his arm from my body and take a couple of steps to show him that I'm okay; I can walk.

The climb uphill proves itself more challenging given my fatigue, but I make it up eventually, eyes locked on the ground, noticing how the grass progressively becomes something more infallible. By the time we reach the first oasis of trees, the ground resembles needle-pointed blades of green.

"It's only been a few days since we arrived but I've been here a couple of times," Michael tells me, "and not very far in. Usually just to pick fruit, but I saw a piglet once and tried to hunt it. You can eat pork, right?"

I bend down and examine the tracks, then stand up again, slowly. "Yeah. Some meat would be good. But not today. Let's stock up on fruit first. How've you been getting water?"

He picks two coconuts up from the ground and knocks them together. "Takes a while, but it's good. For the fruit, I just grab whatever the monkeys eat."

I smile, thankful that he seems to know what he's doing. Together we gather enough coconuts and other fruit to last us a day or two.

The thicket proves to be a forest of colors and flavors, hosting an extended family of monkeys in particular, amongst other sorts of animals. Once or twice I notice squirrels peaking at us through the bushes, before leaping across the forest floor and scuttling up the trees. The deeper we venture, the louder nature gets, till we hear the gush of a downhill stream and the flopping of leaping fish. Before we know it, we find ourselves standing in front of a little pond, bordered by a jagged shock of boulders, water running across the rough surfaces and streaking down them. It's a cool, little haven, surrounded by a shelter of high-hanging branches that allow light to trickle through ever so succinctly.

When I turn to look at Michael to exchange an overdramatized look of delight, he's already taking his shirt off.

"Wait, what?" I demand, turning away, abashed.

"Come on," he says, "it's hot and the water looks good."

I glance at him and see him watching me, stark naked, and avert my gaze hastily. "Isn't this a little inappropriate?"

He laughs softly. "Is this your first time seeing a dick?"

"They named Virgin Mobile after me."

He laughs again and I squirm. "Let me guess," he says. I can hear the smile in his voice. "It's something deep, isn't it? What, being naked shows that you're vulnerable or something?"

"I just think it's called pubic hair and not public hair for a reason," I reply, half-joking.

There's a blur at the corner of my eye, followed by a series of splashes; Michael is standing in the pond in front of me, body bare, face clothed with a lopsided smile.

"Look at me," he says.

"Like you've given me much of a choice. Are dicks usually that big?"

He chortles in response. "Come on in." Then, when I shake my head: "The water's great. You're missing out."

Maybe it's the way the water is glinting so compellingly, or the way Michael is smiling so non-judgmentally and invitingly - I don't really know - but either way something particularly daring marks its territory underneath my flesh, and before I know it, my clothes are a heap on the ground, along with Michael's jaw. I climb into the pond precariously, testing his reaction. (Well, that and the water temperature.)

"You're all skin and bones," Michael says, frowning.

The water feels so, so, so good against my sweaty skin. "You too," I point out, before dipping my head underwater. When I emerge, Michael has made his way towards me, so he's standing just an arms' reach away.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi," I say.

"You look a lot less dead," he tells me, "but I've been wondering... Don't women kind of... Bleed? Monthly?"

I laugh. "I got my period a while ago. But I think my whole body system is totally messed up from the lack of nutrition." Under normal circumstances, I'd be worried sick, but there are far more pressing matters at hand. Like surviving and trying to get back to civilization. You know. That sort of thing.

"You know something?" Michael prods quietly, his voice so hushed that I can hear the trickling stream as it washes over the rocks. "I used to have a lot of sex."

"Okay."

"Safe sex."

"Thank you. What useful information."

He rolls his eyes and I threaten to poke them out. "Payton, I'm trying to say something." I fall silent and he continues, "I used to have a lot of sex with chicks I'd pick up from clubs or bars - or fans of the band. Groupies. Big booties, huge boobs."

"If you're trying to do something with me, I've gotta warn you: I am in no way prepared or experienced."

"No, listen. That's just it. I thought you were cute when we first met." He takes a step forward, so that we're closer still, and suddenly I become aware of how barren we both are, and suddenly my whole body feels hot, and suddenly I feel scared and excited and confused. "And during the first couple of days at sea, I thought you were pretty, and you kept becoming prettier." Stiff. My bones feel taut. "Then I realized: You're hot, yeah. But that's so measly. It doesn't even matter to me anymore. It doesn't do you justice. I mean, look at us, all pale and bony, yet I still think you're getting cuter every day." Pause. "Do you know what I'm trying to say?"

"Not really," I admit, because although I have a slight hunch, I don't want to flatter myself and end up being completely wrong.

Michael shakes his head in mild amusement. "Payton. You have a beautiful mind."

The words weigh down on my tongue and smooth themselves over along the length of my lips like fresh honey, and then my hands find their way onto his porcelain cheeks, and then my eyes burn with the sting of imprisoned happiness, and then my mouth finds his, and then my ears shut the rest of the world out, because we're kissing - his lips soft on mine, his hands drawing me closer. There are no fireworks, no wedding bells chiming, none of that bullshit, but something so much more beautiful and powerful that I can feel my heart galloping. I ignore the hardness pressing against my lower torso, and focus on our mouths. Chapped, cracked, cold, yet with an unyielding inferno dancing along our lips. His body hard, damp, cool, safe. I kiss him slowly, curiously, humbly, earnestly; and I swear to all the deities known to mankind that he reciprocates with the delicacy of a wayfaring ghost, the provision of a warrior, and the fire of magmatic poetry.

I may not be home, but suddenly I realize that I'm not completely lost either - and I decide that, God, if kissing him was a sin, let me be a sinner.