Halfway up the hill to the trench that Joe’s team of grunts diligently spends their time working upon, JC finds himself walking alongside Chris.

After gaining the distinct impression that the man who’d shared the thin space of his mattress the previous night was avoiding him during a hastily convened breakfast, JC isn’t entirely certain how they came to be matching their strides together, each casting hesitant glances at one another, then quickly looking away again when caught. All that he knows is that Chris’ company does little to please him. After the indignity of walking into the marquee alongside Joe, only to watch Chris scuttle out of the opposite entrance, head hung low and hands shoved deep in pockets, JC wants to take his ego and wound it in a similar way to that which has been inflicted upon his own – but he can’t think of anything cutting enough to slice through an exterior that he senses is probably tougher than his own. He settles, instead, for frowning furiously every time that his gaze slides sideways and he catches Chris’ eyes fixed nervously upon his profile.

‘Look, Lance has already bitched me out over last night,’ Chris says quietly, breaking the taut silence that hangs between them as they draw close to the top of the hillside. The other grunts are already spreading out to drop their armloads of buckets, sponges, spoil shovels, whilst Joe gesticulates busily with his arms in some semblance of authority as to what, and who goes where. ‘So, the silent treatment? Just a tad redundant, man…’

His eyes wide with incredulous rage, JC stands still, his knuckles white against the small tower of rusty buckets that he’s carrying, bites down on the tip of his tongue to prevent the tirade of abuse that he can feel swarming nefariously through him from bursting free.

‘Jesus!’ Chris sighs, hitches his box load of spoil shovels a little higher, cants his body around until he is facing JC directly. ‘I’m sorry, okay? For what-ever-the-fuck it is I apparently did to piss you off this badly, I am fuckin’ sorry! Okay?’

‘No.’

‘What?’

‘I said ”no”,’ JC explains, coolly. ‘It’s not okay – and do you know why it’s not okay, Chris? Because you don’t even know what it is that you’re apologising for!’ He pauses, narrows his eyes as he takes in the slight petulance to Chris face as he stares back at him, shakes his head in disdain. ‘Do you?’

‘I…’ Chris flounders, scowls. ‘I said I was sorry!’

‘What for?’

There is a moment where JC thinks that Chris is about to explain the name that he cried that wasn’t his, but it passes quickly in a clatter of archaic metal crashing to the ground as the box that his companion has carried from the campsite, is thrown to spill its contents upon trampled, ruined grass. JC tenses instinctively, takes a nervous step backwards before he can convince himself to stand still

‘Oh, fuck you, Chasez!’ Chris snarls, petulance shifted across to anger as he glares at JC. ‘Like you’re one to fuckin’ talk! Like you’ve ever been deprived of anything worth having, that you really fuckin’ want, that -,’

‘Like you really know me.’ JC drawls, struggling to keep the indifference that he wants in his voice to remain steady, not to tremble as his limbs are as he clutches at the buckets, valiant in his attempt not to give in to the temptation to bring them all crashing down upon Chris’ head.

‘Yeah?’ Chris yells, the harsh sound of his voice abruptly disturbing the relative peace of the hillside, finally distracting Joe from his supervisory duties. ‘Well maybe that’s the fuckin’ problem!’

‘Whatever the fuckin’ problem is, Kirkpatrick -,’

Joe’s bellow dissuades JC from retort, from throwing the buckets that he carries at Chris’ rage-flushed head and turning on his heel to stamp off in a sulk of his own. He winces, instead, at the authority that he hears contained within the usually affable voice, feels his face flush at the realisation that Joe probably knows exactly what the problem is: why he and Chris are standing amidst a veritable sea of intrigued grunts, providing them with their daily dose of fodder for later gossip.

‘- you can take it somewhere the fuck else!’ The bellow dissipates to a harsh hiss as Joe stamps across to where they’re standing, stares still furiously tight upon one another’s faces.

Catching a glimpse of the irritation that creases Joe’s face, JC almost opens his mouth to apologise, the impulse born of æons old instinct – then realises that not only is he not to blame, but that Joe’s ire is focused almost entirely upon Chris. He blinks, nervously, curiosity creeping in to replace a little of his own anger, and he cannot help but watch the way in which Joe and Chris are seemingly sizing one another up.

‘Fuck off, Joe. This has nothing to do with you.’ Chris grinds out, muscles at the corner of his jaw twitching spasmodically as he shifts his glare from its source to the interloper upon their row.

‘Really? Well, Kirkpatrick, you bring it to my trench, you disrupt my peace by screaming at your latest fuck-toy, and you make it my business!’

A look of almost mischievous disdain flickers across Chris’ face as he tilts his head forwards, lowers his own voice a little. ‘Joe. I hate to break it to you, man, but – despite the Italian blood running through your veins? You ain’t Don-fuckin’-Corleone!’

As he sighs, cants his frowning gaze away from Chris, Joe lifts the heel of a hand to rub tiredly against the curve of his nose and brow. ‘Just… pack it in, Chris, okay? I thought Lance already made you promise to apologise to JC instead of making everything worse?’

‘He did.’ Chris snaps, throws a tight glance in JC’s bemused direction. ‘Can I help it if he doesn’t want me to kiss and it all better?’

‘Wasn’t that what got you into this situation in the first place?’ Joe bites out, twitches one shoulder into a vague shrug as he, too, glances at JC, sees the humiliation of a flush creasing its way across his cheekbones. ‘Sorry, man – I was kinda on the other side of the tent wall when you two were… uh…’

‘Oh.’ JC feels nauseous, is obtusely grateful for the fact that he couldn’t scavenge any food earlier as he recognises the vague embarrassment in Joe’s eyes, then the odd sense of triumph in Chris’.

‘Yeah.’

‘D’uh!’ Chris throws in for good measure, rolling his eyes as they both look back to him. ‘I did as Lance said, tried to apologise, JC here threw it back in my face.’ He shrugs his shoulders. ‘What can I say? I’m done!’

Disbelief courses through JC’s system as he stares at Chris. ‘Lance told you to apologise to me?’ he demands, his voice breathy with incredulity.

‘Yeah. Pretty much.’

‘Thought you were ”done”, Chris…’ Joe mutters, reaching out to relieve JC from his armload of buckets, refusing to meet his eyes as he does so.

‘Dude, I’m never done!’

‘Then stop saying you fuckin’ are!’

‘Why?’ Countering, Chris turns to smile broadly at JC, seemingly oblivious to the gaping disbelief that fills the other man. ‘Where’s the fun in behaving myself?’ He rolls his shoulders into a shrug, shakes his head a little. ‘We’re all adults here -,’

‘Some of us, anyway.’ Joe mutters, darkly, whilst JC clenches his hands into tight, useless fists.

‘ – and I don’t see the fuckin’ point in pussy-footin’ around the issue -,’

‘But you don’t even fucking know what it is that you’re supposed to be apologising for!’ JC snarls, abruptly tired of listening to the sound of Chris’ voice. His throat and hands still ache from the night before, and his stomach churns restlessly at the thought of other people – of Joe, and Lance knowing what occurred between them, of what they did and didn’t do… He sighs. ‘Do you?’

A hush falls between them as JC and Joe both wait for Chris’ reply.

They stand and watch, individually fascinated by the contortions that Chris’ shuttered mouth makes as he furrows his brow, narrows his eyes, glares silently, angrily at JC.

A long moment passes and the sound of metal scraping against stone fills the air behind them, distracts Joe enough to remember his responsibilities, and – with a fleeting glance of sympathy towards JC, he turns and strides across to the trench, the buckets held casually in the crook of one arm.

‘Well?’ JC asks softly, holding onto Chris’ gaze, feeling the chasm inside of his heart shiver with anxious misery. ‘Do you?’

Chris pulls a face, shifts his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He huffs out a dismissive little sigh. ‘I took advantage.’ He says, his voice low and flat – sounding for all the world as though he’s reading from an autocue, JC thinks obtusely, then wonders if this is a conversation that Chris has been forced to have on other occasions; if his response, apology, explanation has been drummed into his brain through constant use to a point where he no longer needs to think, but can merely recite. ‘I took advantage of you when you were feeling vulnerable after finding out about your friend and Wade.’

‘What?’

‘I shouldn’t have done that, and I do know better, and I’m…’ he hesitates, perhaps realising that JC has spoken, peers a little closer. ‘Huh?’

‘That’s not why I’m pissed at you.’

‘It… isn’t?’

Shaking his head, JC takes a deep breath, looks at Chris steadily, wonders if it wouldn’t just be better for him to lie, to say that it doesn’t matter, and to pretend that he’s okay with having to avoid Chris for the rest of the excavation. He contemplates it for a moment, then realises that he can’t do that. That he has to know the answer to the question that has circled its way around his brain since he felt Chris’ slumberous body curl its warmth about his own in the chill of the caravan.

‘No.’ he says, then: ‘I’m pissed because I don’t know who the fuck AJ is…’