Flight Plan
John's not one for thinking too far ahead, but he knows he wants to still have this (this, Rodney's body fitted against his, knee to thigh, wrist to shoulder, nose to collarbone, taking up every square millimeter of space on his wide, worn couch) in six months, when the island's nearly empty, when there's a dusting of snow on the dunes, when the Wagoneer's engine won't turn over and they're shivering and cursing the cold and the car and each other waiting for the heat to kick in. He sees the two of them bent over steaming crocks of chowder, puddles of melted butter floating on top, and cold beers, and Rodney hijacking John's oyster crackers; sees himself unwinding the scarf from around Rodney's neck like opening a present, watching Rodney's breath puff out and kissing his chapped lips; sees their pale winter bodies tangled under a heavy pile of quilts, weighing them down, holding them in place, pressed warm against each other, like this, John thinks, like this, like this, just like this. He wants it, and more, years more, wants it so much that he's hot and greedy and hopeful with it, and he'll find a way to ask before summer ebbs away.