Bloody Cappuccino

"Catastrophe has a way of stripping you bare—sometimes literally, sometimes just down to the most humiliating truths about what a body needs to survive."

The tent had become my nemesis.

Every time I thought we'd conquered it, every time the fabric seemed to cooperate and the poles appeared willing to hold their positions, Paul's corner would collapse like a building demolished from within. I watched it happen again—the slow, inevitable sag followed by the complete surrender of the structure we'd been battling for what felt like hours.

"Hey!" The shout escaped me before I could moderate it, frustration sharpening the single syllable into something accusatory.

Paul's apologetic "Sorry," floated back across the collapsing canvas, his voice carrying that particular blend of genuine regret and resignation that had accompanied every previous failure. The sincerity did nothing to temper my irritation. If anything, it made things worse. At least defiance would have given me something to push against.

I found myself wondering, not for the first time, whether Luke had deliberately chosen a ten-man tent as some kind of twisted team-building exercise. The thing was enormous—far too large for one person to manage alone, which meant I was trapped in a cycle of dependency on Paul's fumbling assistance. Every success required his cooperation. Every failure was, at least partially, his fault.

The pole slipped from Paul's grip again, and the entire structure wobbled before succumbing to gravity with a soft whump of displaced air.

"For fuck's sake!" The words hissed through my teeth. It wasn't just about the tent anymore. It was about everything—the Portal that rejected me, the voice that condemned me, the world that had swallowed me whole without asking permission.

"Finally!" Paul's exclamation pulled my attention toward where Luke was arriving with his arms full of supplies.

"I wasn't gone that long," Luke responded, his casual tone suggesting he had no conception of what we'd endured in his absence. The challenges that seemed monumental to us—the repeated failures, the building frustration, the physical exhaustion of wrestling with uncooperative canvas—registered as nothing more than minor inconveniences in Luke's broader calculations.

I gestured toward our partially erected disaster with what I hoped was appropriate pride. "You were gone long enough," I said, the words landing somewhere between boast and accusation.

Luke surveyed our work with an expression I couldn't quite read. "You've made good progress. You'll have it finished in no time."

The commendation felt hollow, but I accepted it anyway. Praise was in short supply, and even lukewarm acknowledgment was better than the silence that had characterised most of my interactions since arriving in this dust-choked wasteland.

Luke mentioned needing to find clothes for Paul—a practical concern that nevertheless felt like a dismissal of our achievement. But his promise to return quickly was enough to restart my flagging motivation. We could finish this. We would finish this.

As Luke departed through the Portal, I turned back to Paul with renewed determination.

"Come on, clumsy," I called, the nickname emerging with less malice than I might have expected. It was a jab, certainly, but one that acknowledged our shared struggle rather than condemning his individual failures. "Let's get this bloody tent finished."

We positioned ourselves at opposite corners, the tent pole heavy in my hands. The fabric shifted as we lifted, the whole structure straining toward verticality. Paul's corner rose in tandem with mine—slowly, carefully, both of us holding our breath as if the slightest disturbance might trigger another collapse.

The pole locked into place with a satisfying snap.

The tent stood.

Stepping back to survey our accomplishment, I allowed myself a moment of genuine satisfaction. The tent rose from the Clivilius dust like some kind of dark green monument—proof that we were capable of building something, of imposing order on this chaotic situation. The canvas walls caught the alien sunlight, casting shadows that seemed almost normal against the red-brown landscape.

"Done," I whispered, the word a quiet acknowledgment meant for no one but myself.

Luke's enthusiasm shattered the contemplative silence, his voice carrying across the distance with an energy that seemed almost inappropriate given our circumstances. "The tent looks amazing! Is it finished now?"

"Pretty much," I responded, accepting the suitcase Luke pressed into my hands. The weight of it surprised me—solid, substantial, a tangible connection to the life I'd been torn from. Paul collected his own overnight bag, and for a moment we stood there like travellers arriving at some bizarre destination, luggage in hand, unsure of what came next.

Then Luke spoke the words that undid me.

"Duke misses you." His voice carried a sadness that mirrored something breaking inside my chest. "He knew as soon as I got the suitcase out that you were going away."

The image arrived unbidden—Duke, my loyal Shih Tzu, watching Luke pack with those intelligent eyes that always seemed to understand more than any dog should. Duke, who woke me every morning with his enthusiastic tail wagging and the proud delivery of his stuffed horse. Duke, who would be waiting by the door now, ears pricked for the sound of a car that would never arrive.

"I miss him too." The admission came out thick, weighted with grief I hadn't fully acknowledged until that moment. Standing in this alien landscape, holding a suitcase packed by a partner I could no longer trust, I found myself mourning a dog I might never see again. The absurdity of it—that a Shih Tzu could represent everything I'd lost—wasn't lost on me. But grief doesn't answer to logic.

"Take these back with you," Paul said, shoving several bulging garbage bags at Luke. The practical intrusion was almost welcome, pulling me back from the emotional precipice.

Luke's brow furrowed as he examined the bags. "I don't think the bin will fit both of those."

"I'm sure you'll think of something." Paul's optimism was relentless, his smile bright despite everything. "We've also made a small pile of cardboard and stuff we can burn, over there." He pointed toward a collection of flattened boxes we'd set aside, potential fuel for whatever the night might bring.

Luke accepted the bags and began his slow walk back toward the Portal, each step laboured under the weight of our discarded packaging. I watched him go, briefly entertaining the thought of following—of helping, of attempting once more to breach that barrier between worlds. But the memory of my previous rejection, the searing heat that had stripped the hair from my arm, kept me rooted in place.

"We may as well unpack these in the tent," I said, hefting my suitcase with exaggerated effort. The thing weighed a ton. Shit, Luke must have squeezed my entire wardrobe in here.

Paul dragged his bag behind me, the wheels leaving furrows in the dust. "And put them away where?" The sarcasm in his voice was deserved. We had a tent—nothing more. No shelves, no drawers, no furniture of any kind.

"For fuck's sake," I muttered, setting the suitcase down in the tent's right wing. Paul was right. Our options were limited to scattering clothes across the bare floor like refugees who'd lost everything. Which, I supposed, was exactly what we were.

Paul wasted no time. He rummaged through his bag with determined focus, the rustling of fabric filling the enclosed space. A faded blue singlet emerged victorious, pulled over his head with the relief of someone finally addressing an obvious need.

"I'm going for a walk," he announced, his voice carrying an edge of annoyance as he ducked through the tent flaps and disappeared.

I watched him through the fly mesh as he collected the shovel and toilet paper rolls Luke had delivered earlier. His figure grew smaller as he trudged into the distance, heading toward whatever privacy the featureless landscape could offer.

"Good," I muttered to myself, my frustration finding voice in the empty tent. "Go and bury your shit."

The words hung in the air, a bitter reminder of how far we'd fallen. But even as I spoke them, I knew my anger was misdirected. Paul wasn't the problem. Paul was just another victim of Luke's cosmic carelessness.

It's not fair. Not fair at all.

The suitcase sat before me like a treasure chest from a shipwreck—familiar and foreign all at once. I knelt beside it, my fingers finding the black zipper. The metal was cold against my skin, a jarring contrast to the stuffy warmth trapped inside the tent.

"Where's Paul?" Luke's voice preceded him, panic threading through the words as he pushed through the tent flaps.

"Gone to bury his shit," I replied without looking up, my attention focused on the contents slowly revealing themselves. Shirts, trousers, socks—the ordinary artefacts of a life that now felt impossibly distant.

"Oh." Luke's demeanour shifted instantly, concern evaporating into something resembling relief. The ease with which he could toggle between emotional states irritated me in ways I couldn't fully articulate.

"What's got you in such a flurry?" I asked, my voice carrying the accumulated frustration of the day.

"Nothing. I just had a moment and thought maybe something had happened to him."

The implication landed like a slap. I turned to face Luke, letting him see the sourness in my expression. "He might not be my favourite person, but I certainly wouldn't hurt him."

The words came out sharper than intended, defensive in a way that surprised even me. After what had happened earlier—the shoves, the accusations, the violence I'd directed at both brothers—maybe the concern wasn't entirely misplaced. But I didn't want to think about that. Didn't want to acknowledge how close I'd come to becoming someone I didn't recognise.

"I wasn't suggesting you would," Luke said, his voice carrying resignation rather than accusation.

My hand closed around something unexpected in the depths of the suitcase. The fabric was slick, unfamiliar in its texture. I pulled it free and found myself staring at a piece of underwear so aggressively fluorescent that it seemed to glow in the dim interior of the tent.

"Really?" The word emerged as pure incredulity, the shiny bright green thong dangling from my fingers like evidence at a crime scene.

"I thought you liked it?" Luke's shrug was a masterpiece of feigned innocence, his face arranged in an expression that might have been convincing if I hadn't known him for ten years.

"You mean you like it," I corrected, tossing the provocative garment back into the suitcase. Luke had always had a thing for sexy underwear—silky fabrics and revealing cuts that he insisted were for my benefit but which I'd long suspected were more about his own fantasies than my preferences. I wore them because I knew what they did to him, how his eyes would darken and his breathing would change when he caught a glimpse of that particular green against my skin.

"You can wear them under your swimmers," Luke suggested, attempting to salvage his choice.

Typical Luke.

I sighed, nostalgia seeping through the cracks in my irritation. Our sex life had dwindled to almost nothing over the past two years—kisses here and there, the occasional handjob when circumstances aligned. The passion that had once defined us had faded into something quieter, something I'd convinced myself was comfortable rather than concerning. The truth was, I wasn't particularly bothered by the absence of physical intimacy. There was something almost liberating about existing in a relationship that no longer demanded that particular performance.

But the thong—ridiculous and impractical and so thoroughly Luke—stirred something complicated in my chest. A memory of who we'd been. A question about who we'd become.

"Well, in any case, you can use these to start a fire," Luke said, changing the subject with characteristic abruptness. He held up several of his university textbooks, their spines cracked and faded from years of neglect on our bookshelf.

"Thanks." I accepted the offering, turning the books over in my hands. "But those books won't last long."

"I know. But I'm not sure we have anything else just yet."

The admission highlighted the precariousness of our situation. We were preparing for a night in an alien world with a handful of discarded textbooks and whatever combustible packaging we'd managed to salvage. The absurdity of it almost made me laugh.

"You could take the car down to the petrol station on Main Road. They usually have small bags of firewood for sale."

The suggestion was practical, reasonable—and designed to needle Luke in exactly the way I knew would be most effective.

"But you know I hate driving."

The protest was predictable, an old complaint I'd heard countless times over the years. Luke's aversion to getting behind the wheel had been a source of minor friction throughout our relationship, usually resulting in me serving as his personal chauffeur for any errand that required leaving the house.

"Well, perhaps it might be a good time to start liking it." The smugness in my voice was deliberate. After all, I thought but didn't say, you've imprisoned your usual chauffeur on an alien planet.

Luke's eye roll was visible even in the tent's dim interior. "I'll bring you a mattress too. Then you won't have to sleep on the dirt."

"Sure." The response was terse, clipped—a refusal to acknowledge the gesture as anything approaching adequate compensation for what he'd done to us.

Luke left the university textbooks outside the tent door when he departed, their presence a reminder of how inadequate our preparations really were. I watched him walk away, the weight of our predicament settling over me like a physical burden.

Then a thought occurred to me.

Paul would be a while yet. The tent was finished. There was no particular rush for anything.

It might be good for Luke and I...

Before I could talk myself out of it, I was removing my jeans and underwear, sliding the bright green thong up my legs and adjusting myself until everything sat comfortably in the snug pouch. The spandex hugged my skin with familiar pressure, the fabric cool against parts of me that rarely saw synthetic materials.

I don't look half bad in a thong, I thought, a weary grin spreading across my face as I examined myself in the tent's filtered light.

I threw my regular underwear back into the suitcase—better to be safe than sorry—and pulled my jeans back on over the hidden indulgence. Then I stepped back out into the warm Clivilius sun.

"Where's the shovel?" The question emerged as I spotted Paul already returned to camp, his presence unexpected and slightly unwelcome.

"Oh," Paul replied with infuriating nonchalance. "I've left it in the ground to mark our toilet spot. We can use that as our guide. We may as well do our business in a single location."

My face scrunched with distaste. The practical wisdom of his suggestion did nothing to diminish the visceral discomfort of contemplating proximity to another person's waste.

"I guess," I conceded, the word dragged reluctantly from my throat.

"Maybe we should build a long drop," I mused, the idea arriving from some half-remembered camping trip or survival documentary.

"A long drop?" Paul's confusion was evident.

"Yeah." I paused, the limitations of my own knowledge becoming apparent. "Although I'm not really sure how we do that." The admission was followed by a longer silence, during which the full weight of our situation pressed down with renewed force. "We're going to die here."

The words escaped before I could catch them—a confession of the despair I'd been fighting to suppress. Paul's face registered the impact, but before either of us could respond, the Portal flared to life in the distance.

"The mattress!" The exclamation burst from me, energy surging through limbs that had been threatening collapse. A mattress. An actual mattress. The prospect of sleeping on something other than bare dirt was enough to momentarily eclipse everything else.

The King-sized mattress emerged from the Portal like a prop from some surrealist theatre production—impossibly domestic against the alien landscape, its pristine surface already collecting a fine layer of Clivilius dust. Luke struggled beneath its bulk, clearly unable to manage the transport alone.

Without discussion, Paul and I moved to help. The three of us manoeuvred the unwieldy rectangle through the dust, each of us taking a corner to ensure it arrived at the tent without being dragged through the grit that seemed to coat everything in this world.

Sheets and blankets followed—familiar fabrics that carried the scent of our home, of the laundry detergent we'd been using for years, of a life that now existed only on the other side of an impassable barrier. Holding the bedding in my hands, I was transported momentarily back to Earth, to mornings spent making the bed with Duke underfoot and Henri begging for breakfast.

We arranged the mattress inside the tent, the task feeling weighted with significance beyond its practical purpose. This was more than just preparing a place to sleep. This was the first real step toward making this prison habitable.

"Sorry, there's only one tent and a mattress," Luke said, his tone apologetic but matter-of-fact.

"I can't believe we haven't even been here for twenty-four hours yet," Paul said, his voice carrying the exhaustion we all felt. "It feels like a week already."

"I know." The agreement came easily because it was true. "At least I might get a decent night's sleep without Duke and Henri."

The joke was weak, an attempt to find humour in the separation that still ached. But it served its purpose, lightening the atmosphere enough for what came next.

"And I forgive you for sleeping with my brother for a night." Luke's words were playful, his tone teasing in a way that felt almost normal.

The laughter that followed was genuine—from Paul, from me, a shared moment of levity that cut through the accumulated tension. In that brief exchange, I found myself seeing Luke again. Not the man who had trapped us here, not the dreamer whose carelessness had destroyed our lives, but the thoughtful, caring partner I'd fallen for all those years ago. The man who could find moments of lightness even in the darkest circumstances.

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat testament to emotions I hadn't fully processed. Somewhere in the chaos of the past hours, I'd lost sight of who Luke really was. The realisation was both revelation and reconciliation—a silent promise to remember, even when everything else felt impossible.

"I've ordered a few more tents," Luke announced, his words pulling us back to practical concerns. "They should arrive tomorrow."

"I hope they are at least as big as this one," Paul said. "I could get used to having that much space to myself."

"Yes. They're the same size."

The confirmation was reassuring. Personal space—real privacy—seemed like an impossible luxury in our current circumstances, but the promise of separate tents offered at least the illusion of independence.

"Now," I pressed, steering the conversation toward more immediate concerns, "that wood you were going to get?"

"Wood?" Paul looked confused, clearly having missed some earlier discussion.

Luke's hard swallow didn't escape my notice. Whatever internal struggle he was navigating, it manifested in that single physical tell—a moment of vulnerability quickly masked.

"I'll get it right now," he declared, the words carrying more weight than a simple errand should warrant.

"Where are you off to?" I asked as Paul rose from his position beside the tent.

"We've been sitting here for ages," he replied, restlessness evident in every line of his body.

"So?"

"So, I'm going to go have a quick dip in the river."

He was gone before I could respond, his figure disappearing toward the water with a speed that suggested he'd been planning the escape for some time. The idea of a cool swim was tempting—the heat was oppressive, the dust clinging to my skin like a second layer I couldn't shed—but inertia kept me rooted in place.

I sighed, the sound heavy with accumulated frustration. How much longer would Luke be? The question circled through my mind without resolution, an unanswerable query in a situation defined by uncertainty.

Then my body announced a need that could no longer be ignored.

The pressure had been building for hours, successfully suppressed by the distractions of tent assembly and emotional turmoil. But now, with nothing to occupy my attention, the urgency became impossible to dismiss. There was no time for deliberation, no opportunity to wait for a more convenient moment.

I needed to find that shovel. And I needed to hope Paul had left the toilet paper.

Or I'm going to be the one stinking of shit.

The thought propelled me forward, my legs carrying me toward the distant marker with desperate speed. The landscape passed in a blur of red-brown dust and endless sky, my entire consciousness narrowed to the single imperative of reaching my destination before disaster struck.

The shovel appeared on the horizon like a beacon of salvation—its handle protruding from the ground exactly where Paul had promised. As I approached, the pressure in my bowels intensified to the point of genuine crisis. There was no time for dignity, no opportunity for careful preparation.

The toilet paper was there, wedged beneath a small rock to protect it from the wind. Small mercies.

What followed was perhaps the least dignified experience of my adult life. Crouched in the alien dust, pants around my ankles, I confronted the most basic of human needs in a setting that offered no accommodation for privacy or comfort. The breeze that had seemed pleasant earlier now felt like an additional indignity, a reminder of how exposed I was in this featureless landscape.

"Bloody cappuccino," I grumbled, my stomach protesting loudly as the ill-advised morning beverage made its final journey through my system. The coffee had been a mistake—I'd known it even as I drank it, my lactose-sensitive gut already preparing its revenge.

A sudden flash of light exploded across my vision, jarring against the muted tones of Clivilius. My heart hammered as adrenaline flooded my system, every nerve screaming danger.

"What the fuck was that?"

The whisper was instinctive, my body already moving into a defensive crouch that was complicated by my current state of undress. My eyes scanned the landscape frantically, searching for the source of the mysterious illumination, half-expecting to find some alien threat emerging from the dust.

Then I saw it. The shovel, lying in the dirt where Paul had left it, its metal surface angled perfectly to catch and reflect the sun's rays. The flash had been nothing more than reflected light—a simple, mundane explanation for what I'd interpreted as cosmic interference.

The relief that washed over me was almost physical. I completed my business with renewed urgency, covering the evidence with dust in a gesture that felt wholly inadequate. The smell would linger. The reality of what we'd been reduced to would persist long after this particular moment passed.

As I straightened, adjusting my clothes and preparing to return to camp, a thought occurred to me. We would need a better system. The garbage bags Luke could transport back to Earth might serve a purpose beyond simple waste disposal. The idea was revolting—collecting our own waste for inter-dimensional transport—but it was also practical in a way that our current approach simply wasn't.

The walk back to camp gave me time to consider the implications. We were prisoners here, yes. But prisoners could still maintain standards. Could still preserve some semblance of the dignity that separated civilised existence from mere survival.

The green thong shifted against my skin as I walked, a hidden reminder of the person I'd been before this nightmare began. The contrast between that frivolous indulgence and my recent humiliation captured something essential about our situation—the way catastrophe strips away pretence while simultaneously demanding we cling to whatever remnants of normality we can preserve.

I would survive this. We all would.

But we would not remain unchanged.