Gray dawn and blaring big-band music that sounds like it’s been filtered through three DIY crystal radios creep in on the draft spilling under our door. The electro-pop communist march song is an effective call to arms in that I’m up and swearing, just not in allegiance.

“Good morning, Vietnam,” Xin mumbles, rolling over on his creaking cot and snaking a hand under his thin cotton sheet to scratch his stomach. A pirated copy of The Quiet American, the kind of photocopied book I saw street stalls selling yesterday, sticks out from beneath his pillow. I loved the movie they made of that. Good Morning, Vietnam too.

I have six days left. Still in yesterday’s stinking jersey and slacks, hair damp with old or new perspiration, I peel myself off my mattress to start my usual routine of push-ups on the floor between our beds. In no time, sweat drips Rorschach splatters on the concrete, on which I try to focus rather than on the dude beside me moaning as he languidly stretches his body to its full horizontal height.

“Aren’t you energetic?” He sits up, head tilted to match his half smile, and lazily reaches for my shoulder. “If I sit on your back, will that help—”

“Don’t,” I snap, wrenching straight up and crawling a step away. My morning voice rattles in my throat and in the heavy air, so I clear both with a cough before spreading my hands on the floor and recovering my rhythm within two push-ups. My lower back’s familiar ache is waking up too, but it has yet to seep into my hips. I shouldn’t have played yesterday after so long sitting in a cramped airplane chair. Not that it was that cramped for little old me, but it was too rigid, and I didn’t pace the aisle as much as I should have.

In the corner of my eye, I watch Xin quietly unlatch his hefty wheeled suitcase  to  extract  linen  shorts  and  a  long-sleeved  raglan  tee.  He looks comparatively casual today, but the outfit’s clearly styling. The cotton shirt is luxuriously creamy in color and texture and spills down his pale back as he dresses, eyeing me warily. “Are you against queer folk?”

I laugh. “When I’m lucky.”

Xin pauses, silent.

Shit. Did he just come out to me? Did I just come out to him? And did I imagine him calling me cute last night? Probably. “You’re queer?”

An automatic smile pulls at my lips. I stop doing push-ups at the count of a hundred and the sight of Xin’s calm expression probing my hard-to-hide relief. “’Cause I am.”

“Are you touch-averse ace or anything? Because I’ll let people know if you need. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

“No, I’m gay. You planning on making me uncomfortable?”

“No, I’m gay,” he parrots, preening his short hair with a black lacquer comb. I can’t tell its fine teeth from the shining hair it parts. “Just… that was a pretty strong shutdown to being nearly touched, Ray. This is Asia. Guys are going to touch you, no sex implied.”

Oh wow, after being possibly called ‘cute’ last night, I’ve been shot down before my eyes are even properly opened. ‘No sex implied’—well, at least I know where I stand with him today. “Is it an Australian thing too to touch up your… mates?”

Xin laughs. “Fuck, no. There it’s only cool for men to slap around butch, strapping athletes like you, especially when you’re panting and glistening.”

It takes me a second to get that the lascivious wink he hits me with is a sarcastic stand-in for ‘Apology accepted.’ He didn’t take my snapping personally. “Do even Australians get Australian humor?”

“When we’re lucky. Shower’s three doors down on the left. It’s a faculty one, but all the teachers who live here are housed in another block, so we don’t have to share it.”

“Except with each other,” I mumble into the tangle of clothes I’ve gutted from my backpack.

“Thanks for the invite, but right now it’s all yours. Mate.”

“I take back yesterday’s request. You’re the last person whose job it should be to rein me in for stepping out of line.”

“Then I’ll just have to do it for fun.”