When I woke up the sun was high and there was a marching band trampling through my head. I was in my bed, fully dressed, except for my shoes - which I didn't remember removing - and very much alone. Somehow I'd gotten into my apartment, out of my shoes and onto my bed. I'd even had the covers magically tucked around me. Now I know I'd been in no state to do this myself, and there was only one other person who could've done it for me.

//Chris.//

When I finally managed to get upright without my vision going blotchy, I found him. He was sprawled face down on my couch, breathing softly, dead to the world. My couch is a fold-out, but I don't think he'd had the chance to discover that, and in it's non-folded out state it wasn't quite long enough, so his feet stuck over the end. He still had his combat boots on. I guess removing one pair of shoes in his drunken state was enough.

He looked awfully uncomfortable. I couldn't help the little spike of guilt I felt that I'd slept so soundly on a nice soft bed while he was out here roughing it, no blankets or anything. Some host I am. As a belated attempt at host-erly decency, I threw a sheet over him and wedged a cushion under his head. I considered removing his boots, but I didn't want to accidentally wake him, so I settled for adjusting the cushions and trying really really hard not to stare at his mouth. Or remember how good those now-innocent looking lips felt on mine, or what those hands did to me when they touched me.

//Damn, I wish I could remember what happened.//

//How far did we go?//

//Did he stop it? Did I stop it?// I had a hundred questions and no answers - only clues. I knew we couldn't have done much more than what I could remember from the club, as both of our clothing was entirely intact, and I didn't feel any unpleasant stickiness or soreness inside my pants. My lips felt a little raw, but that was probably just due to the somewhat enthusiastic tongue hockey.

//Although...// My errant mind supplied a particular event that would've caused no mess and very little disruption to the clothing. My eyes traced the line of his body, but the way he lay hid both his belt buckle and his fly so I didn't get any hints to the answer of that question.

I silently cursed my feeble mind for daring to forget even one moment of my time with Chris. It seemed such a waste to lose memories that were probably intense enough to sustain me through many lonely future evenings.

Tut-tutting at myself, I went to dig up some aspirin to calm my screaming head. When I got back, water bottle in hand, Chris was stirring. He moaned, twitched and sighed. I settled in a chair opposite the couch and waited to catch the first glimpse of those unsettling blue eyes. It didn't take long. They slowly opened, then quickly closed again as Chris groaned in complaint at the bright sunlight. After a moment, they opened again, and fixed on me.

"Morning." I said, my voice coming out suprisingly cheerful.

"You sure about that?" He asked, his voice dangerously sexy - low and gruff from sleep. I glanced at the clock. It was past one.

"Afternoon then." I corrected myself, attempting to stop my eyes from roving his form hungrily as he sat up and ran a hand through mussed red and black hair. He "hmph"ed in response and pointed at the water bottle. I passed it to him and again had to exercise some control over my wandering eyes as he tipped the bottle up and drank. This time my gaze traced down his chest to settle at his fly. It was (relievingly?) fastened, but his belt buckle wasn't.

Too late, I realised he'd caught me staring. He shot me a questioning look.

"Did we...?" I asked leadingly, somewhat sheepishly, waving my hand vaguely toward his undone buckle. He glanced down quickly, then back up at me, eyes widening as my meaning sunk in.

"Ahhh... no." I let out a breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding. When I glanced up I noticed Chris' grin was lopsided. "You did offer though."

"Oh." My face was suddenly aflame and the marching band had returned for an encore. //God, I can't believe I... but if I offered... and we didn't... then he must've....// "God, I'm sorry Chris-" He didn't let me finish,

"Shut it, Hayes. It's OK." The words should've sounded harsh, but his tone softened them so they were almost affectionate.

"But if I... I mean... you said... no - right?"

"Darren-"

"So you didn't want to, which is fine, but me, well, *offering* would've made you uncomfortable, and that's out of line and-" I was babbling now, but he cut me off quite swiftly

"Darren!"

"Yeah?" I asked, suddenly sheepish that I'd been carrying on.

"Forget about it." His tone was gentle, but his words worried me. Is that what he wanted? For me to forget it had ever happened? I recalled the expression on his face outside The Beat as he reitorated his straight-ness. Did he want to forget the whole thing? The thought troubled me.

"That could be hard considering I can't even remember *it*." I muttered darkly.

He gave me a tired smile. "You know what I mean."

"Well I'm just... sorry."

"Why?"

"Well, I tried to make you do something you didn't want to do."

"Did ya? I don't remember that."

"Then why didn't we...?"

"Darren..." He closed his eyes for a second as if seeking divine intervention. "Darren, you were drunk-"

"I know *that*, but-"

"No, Darren. You were *really* drunk." I stopped arguing. I suddenly saw this about to get much worse. "This," Chris indicated his undone belt buckle "was as far as you got."

I stared. I swallowed. I blushed really *really* hard.

"I did that?" Chris nodded. "And then I..." I couldn't finish.

"Passed out." Chris helpfully supplied the rest. If I was embarrassed before, then I was mortified.

"I, oh god, I am *so* sorry." I wasn't kidding. I was sorry. Hell, I was worse than sorry, I was *sad*.

"Like I said, forget about it." Chris reitorated, swinging his still-booted feet off the couch and heading for the kitchen. I wanted desperately to stop him - I wasn't ready to end the conversation just yet, but my mind was racing so fast with all this new information I didn't have time to think of something to say to stop him.

"Chris, hang on a sec," I touched him on the arm and even that light brush made my fingers tingle. He spun round and regarded me with seeming coolness and detachment. I knew I was staring again and that I had to think of something to say really quick but my mind was still playing catch-up trying to fill in the blanks. // *I* undid his belt. *I* was going to go down on him. And he wanted me to. He was going to let me do it, if I hadn't... if only I hadn't...

Fucked up so badly.//

I wanted to ask him if he wanted it, if he was disappointed when he didn't get it. I wanted to ask him if he was angry or frustrated when he picked me up and dragged me to my bed, tucking me in so carefully. I wanted to ask him if he remembered everything, or if parts were missing from his memory, like mine. Mostly I wanted to ask him if he wanted to do it again, if he would do it again... with me.

"Thanks for taking care of me." Was all that came out. He gave me a teasing grin.

"Anytime."

He didn't stay long after that. Citing exhaustion and a need for fresh clothes, he was gone by two. I tried not to be disappointed but I don't think I fully succeeded. I was too wired to sleep, but too whacked to go out so I spent the rest of the day skulking about the apartment trying not to torture myself with thoughts of Chris and my missing memories of last night.

Five o clock found me plastered to the couch *not* watching christian television *not* thinking about last night and most importantly *not* thinking about Chris. Which *isn't* the reason I dove for the phone when it chirped. I wasn't expecting it to be Chris. Really.

"Hello?" I barked a little breathlessly. Cripes, got it before the third ring.

"Hey mate."

"Oh, hi Dan."

"Well don't get too excited, it's just me." He ribbed gently. Oops, guess I wasn't as convincing as I'd hoped in getting the disappointment out of my voice. "Who were you expecting?"

"Oh no one."

"Yeah right, Daz. Like you didn't just leap for the phone, then." I heard him chuckle and fought the instict to snap at him. Damn him, the bastard knows me too well. "Who's the lucky guy?"

Yeah, Dan knows I'm into guys. He's my best mate, of course he knows that. Yes, we're that close, we always have been. Once upon a time I even thought I was falling for him, but I managed to talk myself out of it when I established he was straight as an arrow. And he is, believe me. But not so much that he cringes at the thought of discussing my love life. He'd like to think he prides himself on his open-mindedness, but he's really just a big gossip.

"So...?" Dan was pushing for details.

"What?"

"Spill it, ya big diva."

"That's it? 'Spill it ya big diva' is 'sposed to make me want to open up to you?"

"Oh come on Daz. You know I live to hear about your exciting exploits. How else am I supposed to vicariously experience the queer lifestyle? So who is he?"

I tried not to sigh. He had me. Truth be known I really wanted to talk to Dan about this. I needed him to tell me if I was being stupid, or whatever.

"Oh it's stupid, it's so self destructive." I blurted out.

"Oh god Daz - not another straight guy!"

"Well not totally...."

And so began the story. I explained it all, from Chris's suggestion that we go out, up to his disappearance the next day.

"So what do you think - it's a lost cause isn't it?" I waited impatiently for Dan's verdict.

"No mate - *you're* a lost cause. If you hadn't gotten so bloody falling down drunk you probably would've scored."

"Oh come on, he's a total closet case. I'm setting myself up for disappointment. Tell me to forget about him."

"You sure you want to do that?"

He had me there. No ready answer, I just stammered until he jumped in again.

"D'ya think you *can* forget about him?"

Again, I was at a loss. I mean, I hadn't exactly had much luck not thinking about Chris all day.

"I just... I don't want to be stuck in another relationship where I'm more into it than he is. And the straight ones are always so much worse to begin with."

"Sounds to me like you're trying to talk yourself out of it."

"Duh. Of course I am. Wouldn't you?"

"Daz, I think you're forgetting *I* would never be in this situation."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah that hetero thing. So what should I do?"

"Stop sweating it so much. See how he is next time you see him. If he's still interested. Make a move and see how he reacts. He might surprise you."

I made an interested yet non-committal noise.

"And Daz?"

"Hmm?"

"Try staying sober this time. It may help."