Jericho stretched and sipped his coffee, basking in the early morning sun.  His backpack sat on the porch, prepped for a leisurely hike into the surrounding woods.  He left the empty coffee mug by the door when he finished it, slung his pack over his shoulder, and stepped up to the starting line for his hike.

He started at the comforter, roasted into the ground by two days of sunshine and summer heat.  He looked around for signs of Sinclair bumbling through the forest off-path.  He knew the deer trails in his woods -- based on the flattened grass in front of him, neither he nor Sinclair used them last time they set out.

Jericho took the path of crushed grass and cracked branches.  He approached a boulder in the path and scrambled to the top for a view of the surrounding forest.  The path continued on the other side of the boulder, Sinclair’s shoeprints pressed into a mud puddle before the underbrush gave way.  He clambered off the rock and compared Sinclair’s shoeprints to his own -- maybe a size thirteen or fourteen.  Seemed about right for Sinclair, and you know what they say about big feet.  

He grinned to himself and  followed the tracks, keeping an eye out for his own bare footprints and trying to visualize the glowing ball of light in his mind’s eye, comparing the shadows in his memory to the arrangement of tree trunks he saw before him.  No use, the memory only echoed the urge to run.  The thought sent a thrill through his body, dissipating into a quiet vibration along his skin.

He distracted himself by jumping from one of Sinclair’s shoeprints to another as they crossed a former mud puddle, trying to match his long stride.  He must have been running too -- for a while, at least.  Jericho got tired of matching his steps and slowed down to enjoy the sun on his skin.  

The run felt like a straight shot, more or less.  Sinclair ran to the place he fell, he didn’t follow Jericho’s scattered path chasing the light.  He remembered skidding through sharp turns as its position changed, flickering around him.  Even so, he’d already walked two miles into the forest by his estimation.

The bugs droned on as the heat of the day approached.  He stopped in the shade of a tree for a water break, wiping sweat from his forehead.  Jericho expected to find the ditch sooner, but four miles in, he wasn’t so sure anymore.  Sinclair’s trail continued.  He leaned against the trunk of the old pine that sheltered him and stared into the terrain of the forest, to the clearing up ahead, and tried to make out the valley between the two hills that rose in front of him.  The shallow ravine that ran between them was the last one he knew of, and if that wasn’t where Sinclair found him then he was in new territory.  Without answers.

Jericho pushed through the broken branches of shrubs nourished by the water that occasionally flooded the dry ravine below, following a hollow already carved out by Sinclair in his search.  It left him on the edge of the ravine, stones freshly exposed by the rush of water that flooded them.  Thick brush lined the sides, stabilizing the banks.  No footprints down below, but he could see a mountain mahogany bush with snapped branches a little ways down.  He slid into the riverbed to investigate.

Jericho stared into the hollow of the bush.  He remembered waking up there.  His arm ached, recalling the bruising grip that pulled him out of there, wet and cold.  He hugged himself, caressing his arm where Sinclair held him.  The margins of the bruise stood out, barely, over another larger bruise he sustained chasing the light.  His skin buzzed as he settled against the bank.

If he waited here, would the forest tell him what happened?

A jay crowed.  Answer enough.

Did Sinclair run all this way for him?

Something at the base of Jericho’s being twitched, recalling the sardonic comment he’d made to Alex in the hospital.

A knight in shining armor, coming to carry me out of here on his noble steed.

As though Sinclair had not immediately shown up, opened the door of his impeccably clean car, and driven him home.  As though Sinclair hadn’t run five miles, then carried him home on his back after a sleepless night.  Jericho hadn’t thought himself a damsel.  Whore, maybe.

His mind drifted back to the smell of Sinclair’s cologne.  The warmth of his body, rise and fall of his chest, standing alone as his only memories of rescue.  If he closed his eyes, he could summon the feeling of comfort, imagine Sinclair holding him against the bank of that ditch.  

So he closed his eyes and leaned into the vulnerability.

He imagined Sinclair’s hands on his naked body, warm from exertion.  His skin softer than Jericho expected, his grip firm enough that he couldn’t pull away.  Body heat pressed against his chest.  Slick pooled in Jericho’s boxers.  He wondered who had been lucky enough to lie under Sinclair, if they appreciated the man’s hands on him like he had for those blissful few moments he was conscious while Sinclair carried him.  His pants felt tight.

Jericho grimaced, afterglow fading as quickly as it arose.  He dug around in his bag for a towel and wiped his hand off.  He shoved himself back into his pants and zipped them up, wadding up the soiled towel up and shoving it back into the bag.   Sparing a glance at the shrub he’d slept in days ago, he ached to relive that event.  

His head throbbed, chest rising and falling.  A hot breeze rippled through the branches of trees surrounding him.  The voice in his head repeated the accusation:

Whore.