Wolfgang sits next to him and Michael looks over, unable to stop his gaze from passing their face and continuing down their neck, shoulders, chest, stomach. Their body looks as thin as it’s always felt through their clothes. Their skin seems soft and has already been touched gently by the sun; most of the scents from shampoos or perfumes are gone, replaced by salt and earth. He can see their bare legs, too, long and bruised and shaved smooth.
He feels guilty for looking at them like this, even though he’s their boyfriend. Even though they live together, sleep together.
“I knew you had something to drink,” he mutters distractedly—then betrays himself by realizing out loud, “Shit. I forgot to bring water.”
He probably would have dropped it in the nothingness anyway.