Somehow he'd thought it would be better, his first time. More romantic. He feels a fool now. Maybe men aren't meant to share love. Just sex. He doesn't know. There's no one he can ask. He wants to be loved, but ... he's too proud, too shy, too inarticulate to confess it. Last night he'd been so excited, so eager.
He sighs, and rises from the couch. He thought it would bring the two of them closer. A mistake.
He dresses quietly. He wants to avoid embarrassment and humiliation. His eyes would show too much. Or not enough. He leaves silently, carefully snicking the latch closed by hand.
Outside, there's a vapour trail high above in the luminous paleness. The mountains are dark against the jubilant light of the still hidden sun. His arse twinges a little with each step. The air is sweet. He wipes his eyes with his hands, brusquely, and tries to whistle.
On a tree by a river a little tom tit....