Okay, so there was the whole black hole of nothingness thing, right, and that was pretty good. He could deal with the fact that even though everything was the same none of it really mattered, and he could deal with the whole human drama thing. It was unavoidable; that much he'd learned from Caterine, and in a way it made him feel better. At least if there was nothing he could do about it then he didn't have to feel guilty about this, because in the end they were all part of a whole and that meant all sex was really just masturbation.
He was pretty sure that made more sense in his head than it would if he said it out loud. Because masturbation was pretty much a solitary activity – at least in Albert's experience – and there was definitely someone else in the room. Someone hot and sweaty and breathing against Albert's neck, and that would be kind of annoying if Albert didn't know they were part of the same whole.
Made of the same fabric. Composed of the same cosmic space junk. Whatever.
So there was something to be said for this whole infinity theory, but that didn't make the breath against his neck any less hot. It didn't do anything about the hickeys in weird places or the pleasant ache in his muscles or the come drying on his stomach, and he was pretty sure there was nothing a face mask or a sleeping bag could do about that. But maybe Caterine was right – maybe he didn't even need to visualize and deconstruct, because human drama was inevitable and she probably knew he'd end up here before even he did.
Granted, it was his bed, but he'd never expected to end up here with Brad.
Still, he couldn't help wondering what Tommy would think if he found out his Other was sleeping with his own Existential crisis. Then again, Brad didn't have anywhere to go after Albert torched his jet skis, so really, it was the least he could do. And in the grand scheme of things, fucking Brad was really just fucking himself. He could live with that.