Scene: Late Night – William and Est’s Hotel Room

The hallway is dim and quiet, the party now just muffled laughter and the occasional clatter of dishes from the other suite. William walks slowly, one hand steady on Est’s waist. Est leans into him, head tilted against his shoulder, eyes half-closed but still sharp with something heavy.

William unlocks the door and guides him inside. The room smells faintly of salt and linen. The ocean breeze slips through the cracked balcony door, cool and soft against the heat of Est’s flushed skin.

“Sit,” William says, guiding Est down to the edge of the bed.

Est drops heavily, running a hand through his hair and letting out a tired, dry laugh. “I’m not that drunk.”

“You tripped over your own foot,” William mutters, heading to the minibar for water.

“I meant emotionally,” Est replies.

That makes William pause, just for a second. He brings the bottle over and places it in Est’s hand. “Drink.”

Est takes a sip but doesn’t let go of the bottle. His eyes drift to the floor.

“You okay?” William asks, sitting beside him now, close but not touching.

Est is quiet. Then: “I don’t know.”

William sighs, head tilting back. “Okay. That’s honest.”

Est’s voice is rough with something more than alcohol. “We’ve barely seen each other lately.”

“I know,” William says.

“You don’t act like it.”

That stings more than it should. William turns to look at him. “I’ve been working. You’ve been training. We’re both — what, supposed to just drop everything?”

“I’m not asking for everything,” Est snaps, sharper than he means to. “I just want… something. A message. A call that isn’t just ‘I’m tired, goodnight.’ Something that says you remember me.”

William’s eyes flicker down. “Of course I remember you.”

Est looks at him now — really looks. “Do you?”

William opens his mouth, then closes it. His jaw clenches.

“It’s like we’re always busy,” Est says, quieter now. “And when we’re not, we’re too tired. Or too far. Or pretending like it’s fine when it’s not.”

There’s a long silence.

“I missed you,” William says finally. His voice is low, thick. “But I didn’t know how to tell you without sounding like I was blaming you for being gone.”

“You could’ve blamed me,” Est whispers. “At least we’d be talking.”

William reaches for his hand, gently. “I didn’t want to fight.”

“Then what are we doing now?”

“Trying,” William says. “Too late, maybe. But still trying.”

Est closes his eyes and leans against William’s shoulder, quieter now. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” William murmurs, though he doesn’t sound entirely sure.

Est exhales against his neck. “Tell me again tomorrow. When I’m sober.”

William tilts his head slightly, his cheek brushing Est’s temple. The moment is still, suspended — like neither of them knows what will come next. Like maybe they’re afraid to move, afraid it’ll shatter the fragile thread holding them together.

But Est does move.

Slowly, deliberately, he lifts his head and looks at William. His eyes are hazy from the alcohol, yes — but clear in something else. Something deeper.

“William,” he murmurs, his voice low, raw. “I want you.”

William blinks, startled — not because of the words, but the way they’re said. Not playful. Not teasing. Just true.

Est’s gaze doesn’t waver. “I can’t even remember the last time we did it,” he whispers. “Not because I didn’t want to. But because… we’ve been too far. For too long.”

He leans in, and this time — he kisses William.

It’s soft at first. Testing. Remembering.

William doesn’t resist. He cups Est’s face, his thumb brushing along Est’s cheekbone. The kiss deepens naturally, like their bodies know this rhythm even if time has made strangers of their routines. There’s nothing hurried in it — just the slow, aching need to feel something familiar. Something safe.

When they part, their foreheads rest together.

William breathes out. “Are you sure?”

Est nods, already threading his fingers through the front of William’s shirt. “I’m not drunk enough to forget this. And I want it to be you. Not just your body — you.”

William kisses him again, slower this time. His hands move carefully — reverently — like Est is something precious he hasn’t held in a long time. And maybe he is. Maybe, in all the weeks apart, all the missed calls and long silences, they forgot what this meant.

They remember now.

Clothes come off gradually, not in haste but in moments — William pulling Est’s shirt over his head like unwrapping a memory, Est reaching for him like he’s been waiting to return home. Each touch says more than words: I missed you. I still want you. We’re still us.

The room is lit only by the gold spill of light from the balcony. The air smells of salt and skin and something new trying to grow from something old.

Est lies back against the pillows, eyes wide, chest rising fast — but steady. He pulls William toward him with both hands, no hesitation. “I don’t want to feel alone anymore,” he whispers.

William kisses the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his collarbone. “You’re not,” he murmurs between every kiss. “Not tonight.”

They meet in the middle — not just body to body, but soul to soul. Equal. Giving. Taking. Relearning each other’s rhythms.

In that moment, the world narrows to soft breaths, shared warmth, and the fragile, fierce hope that maybe love — real love — can survive distance, time, and silence… if both people still choose it.

And tonight, they do.

William’s hands move slowly, like he’s tracing the outline of something sacred. The room is still bathed in the soft glow from the balcony, sea breeze curling through the curtains like breath. Est sits on the edge of the bed, shirt halfway undone, chest rising and falling in quiet anticipation. He’s watching William — unguarded, open in a way that he rarely allows himself to be anymore.

William doesn’t rush. He lets his fingers linger on each button before sliding it free. He’s done this a dozen times before, but it feels different now — like rediscovery. Like reverence.

When the last button is undone, William gently slides the shirt down Est’s arms, the fabric whispering against skin. His eyes fall, instinctively, to the right side of Est’s torso.

There it is.

The shark — sleek, black, clean lines curling just beneath his ribs. Simple, but sharp. A little wild. A little misunderstood. Just like Est.

William’s breath catches, just slightly.

“I always forget how much I love this,” he murmurs, his voice hushed and full of wonder, like he’s talking to something alive.

Est looks down at it, then back up at him. “It’s just a tattoo.”

William shakes his head slowly. “No. It’s you.”

He reaches out, brushing his fingertips just beneath the ink, like touching it too directly might disturb something sacred. “I remember the first time I saw it,” he says softly, half-smiling. “You were pretending not to care if I looked. But you kept turning a little to make sure I did.”

Est lets out a quiet laugh, low and warm. “You were staring.”

“I am staring,” William says, leaning in to press a kiss just beside it. “Because I love every version of you — but this part?” He kisses it again, slower. “This part reminds me that even when you're silent, your body still speaks. It tells me you're still fighting.”

Est’s hand finds the back of William’s neck, fingers slipping into his hair.

“It’s not about fighting anymore,” Est murmurs, his voice barely audible.

William looks up at him. “What’s it about now?”

Est exhales. “Surviving. And you.”

William rests his palm fully over the tattoo now — warm, solid. “Then I’ll keep loving this part of you, too,” he whispers. “Until you believe it’s not just about surviving.”

They don’t need to say more. The moment holds all the meaning — Est’s body trusting again, William’s heart listening, their breath synchronized in quiet awe of how much history can live in a single mark.

And how much love can live in the hands that trace it.