David Confronts
We didn’t head straight back to the hotel. The lights of the Red Light District still pulsed behind us like something we couldn’t quite shake off, so when we reached the corner near the canal, David jerked his thumb toward a narrow, half-empty bar tucked between two souvenir shops. There was no music, no crowd, just a few locals and the low glow of old beer signs. It felt like the kind of place people slipped into when they didn’t want to be found.
“Drink?” he asked. His voice was flat, nothing like the hyped-up version of him from earlier.
“Yeah,” I said. “One more can’t hurt.”
We slid onto stools at the far end of the bar. The bartender poured two tall beers without asking. We drank in a silence that felt heavy and close, the kind that pressed in from all sides. David stared into his glass like it might explain every bad decision we had made since landing in Amsterdam. I kept my eyes on the foam, tracing patterns in the condensation with my thumb. Every few seconds one of us shifted or cleared our throat, but the words never came. The silence felt alive, like it was waiting for one of us to break.
I took a long pull, letting the cold burn settle in my chest. David did the same. We ordered another round. Still nothing. Just the clink of glass and the occasional sigh. I wanted to say something, anything, maybe make a dumb joke about how this whole thing was supposed to fix everything and somehow made it worse. But the words stayed stuck. I drank faster instead, hoping the buzz would loosen something inside me. It didn’t.
After the third beer, David finally spoke, his voice low and rough.
“Solid beer.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Better than the last place.”
That was it. The silence slipped back in. A muted soccer game flickered on the TV in the corner, and we watched it like it mattered, like it was easier than looking at each other. The air between us felt charged, like one wrong word could set everything off. I kept glancing at him, at the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders stayed tight like he was carrying something too heavy to name.
By the time we paid and stepped back into the cool night, we were drunk enough for the world to feel softer around the edges. Not messy, just loose, unsteady in a quiet way. The walk to the hotel passed in near silence, broken only by our footsteps and the faint hum of bikes along the canal. His shoulder brushed mine every few steps, and neither of us moved away or joked about it. The tension from earlier still clung to us, stubborn and close.
Room 207 felt smaller when we walked in. The door clicked shut, and it was just us again. Two beds. The faint mix of cologne and clean sheets that had started to feel familiar. Safe, almost.
David kicked off his shoes and dropped onto his bed. I sat across from him, the narrow space between us suddenly feeling like too much. The alcohol had loosened everything except the one thing I needed to say.
I couldn’t take the quiet anymore.
“So,” I said, my voice heavier than I wanted, “you got exactly what you wanted tonight. No strings, no drama, the whole reset plan. So why do you look like someone just told you the trip’s over?”
David stared at the floor for a long moment, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight. When he finally looked up, something in his expression made my stomach drop. He looked tired. Open in a way I wasn’t used to.
“Because it sucked,” he said quietly. “I mean, yeah, it felt good for a bit. She was hot, she knew what she was doing, everything should have been perfect. But the whole time, I kept thinking about you. Not in a weird way. Just…” He exhaled slowly. “You’ve been pulling away since that first night. Ever since the pills, it feels like you’re here, but not really. And tonight, even in the middle of it, I had this feeling in my gut like I was losing you. Like I didn’t know how to fix it.”
He swallowed, his voice tightening. “I thought this would help. That it would reset everything, make us normal again. But it didn’t. It made it worse. I was lying there after, thinking this is what I wanted, right? And all I felt was empty. Because you’re my person, Anthony. You always have been. I need you close. I need us to be okay. And right now it feels like you’re slipping away, and I don’t know how to stop it.”
The words settled between us, heavy and real.
My heart slammed against my ribs. This was David, the guy who never took anything seriously, laying it all out like this. And all I could do was sit there, my chest burning with everything I hadn’t said.
He had no idea how deep it went. No idea that every second tonight had felt wrong because he was the only one I wanted. No idea that this wasn’t just confusion or distance for me. It was love. The kind that felt too big to hold, too dangerous to say out loud.
My chest ached like something inside me was breaking open. One wrong word, and I could lose him. Not just the friendship, but everything that came with it. The easy closeness. The way he reached for me without thinking. I couldn’t risk that. I wouldn’t.
I took a breath and forced my voice steady.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve been in my head. The whole thing after the pills messed with me, and I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I pulled back. But you’re right. I’ve been distant. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you were losing me. It was just… a phase. I’m getting over it. We’re good. I promise.”
He searched my face, like he was trying to see past the words. For a second, I thought he might push, might ask what I really meant. But he didn’t. He let out a long breath, his shoulders finally dropping.
“Okay,” he said softly, a small smile breaking through. “Good. I needed that.”
He stood, crossed the space between us, and pulled me into a hug that knocked the air out of me. Not quick, not casual. Tight. Solid. His arms wrapped around me like he meant it, one hand at the back of my head, the other firm against my lower back. I hugged him back just as hard, pressing my face into his shoulder, breathing him in.
For a moment, everything else fell away.
We stayed like that longer than we probably should have. His grip tightened, pulling me closer until I could feel his heartbeat steady against mine. The hug softened, turned warm, almost gentle. His hand moved slowly across my back, and I let myself lean into it, just for a second, letting the feeling wash over me even though I knew I couldn’t keep it.
When he finally pulled back, his hands lingered on my shoulders. His expression was softer now, lighter.
“We’re really okay?” he asked.
“We’re really okay,” I said, smiling like it didn’t hurt.
He nodded, satisfied.
We changed in silence, the kind that felt easier now. Without saying anything, we ended up in the same bed. It happened naturally, like it always had. He lay back, and I curled into his side, my head resting on his chest, one leg thrown over his. His arm came around me without hesitation, his hand settling at my lower back, tracing slow, absent patterns.
We fit together too easily.
“Night, Anthony,” he murmured, his lips brushing the top of my head.
“Night,” I whispered.
He fell asleep quickly, his breathing evening out, his arm still wrapped around me like he wasn’t ready to let go. I stayed awake, staring into the dark, feeling everything all at once.
His heartbeat under my cheek. The warmth of his skin. The way he held me without thinking twice.
I loved him. Completely, quietly, painfully.
I wanted to tell him. I wanted to turn my head and kiss him, slow and sure, and let everything spill out. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Loving him meant keeping him, even if it meant carrying this alone.
I closed my eyes, letting a few quiet tears slip free, soaking into his shirt where he would never notice. This was the choice I had made. To keep him close, even if it meant hiding the truth.
He slept peacefully beside me, believing everything was fine again. I stayed there in his arms, holding him just a little tighter, careful not to wake him.
This closeness, his arm around me, his breath warm against my hair, the steady rhythm of his heart, this was all I would ever get.
And for now, it had to be enough.
I pressed the lightest kiss to his shoulder, so soft it barely existed, and whispered the words I would never say when he was awake.
“I love you, man. More than you’ll ever know.”
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