Labor Day
Labor Day weekend's busy and crowded, like the whole island's having one last frantic blast before vacation season's over and the tourists and summer residents all pack up and go back to their real lives. Rodney'd thought that's what he'd be doing, of course, if he'd even planned on staying until the end of summer; he was only supposed to be here a week, after all. And then somehow this became his real life.
Even John's caught up in the party atmosphere-he gets a ride into town Saturday night to meet some guys at the bar, presumably to talk about fishing, or bait, or boats. Rodney begs off, in spite of John's wheedling, and gets a call at 2am to come pick John up at Cap'n Tobey's. This late, town empties out again once they get past the strip of bars, and John's mellow and loose in the passenger seat on the way home, softly humming what Rodney's pretty sure is the Air Force song. He lets Rodney maneuver him onto the bed with a minimum of fuss, although Rodney suspects they're both going to regret John not brushing his teeth come morning. It's still hot, and Rodney shoves the quilt to the foot of the bed, and the sheet, too-they can pull it up later if they get cold-and they lie back in just boxers, a few inches apart, breathing quietly. Rodney runs a hand up John's sweaty back, and John murmurs, "Love you," not sounding very drunk at all, and then they're asleep.
Sunday morning dawns hot again; Rodney heads to the bakery to pick up sweet rolls and iced coffees, and when he gets back, the house smells soap-tangy, like John just got out of the shower. Rodney finds him lounging at the table in shorts and a t-shirt, and he doesn't really seem any worse for wear after his night out. He grins and says, "My hero," when Rodney thunks the coffee and the Sunday Times down in front of him, and he stretches up to give Rodney a toothpaste-flavored kiss. Rodney touches his spiky, wet hair.
John makes noises about going to the dump, or, as he insists on calling it, Take It or Leave It. Whatever-Tommy Hilfiger's trash still counts as trash in Rodney's book. (He's asked whether John's actually brought furniture home from there, and John said no, but Rodney's still suspicious.) But heat and lethargy make them stay put, and they settle into a long, languid day of lying low. Rodney swears he hears the far-off blast of the ferry horn every 15 minutes, but maybe that's just because John looks up every single time, startled and alert, like Cash when someone's at the front door.
Rodney watches him do it over and over, and he wonders whether some corner of John's brain was expecting Rodney to be swept off the island with the crowd, even though Rodney's books are fitted next to John's on the big bookcases (John probably got those from the dump), and his shirts are taking up all the space in John's closet that John's t-shirts don't need, and Rodney's cat and John's dog are curled up in the same puddle of sunlight. Rodney doesn't say anything, though, figures that the fact that he's sitting right here is the best proof he can offer.
They move to the porch in the afternoon when the sea breeze kicks up, giving the seagulls something to coast on and making the neighbor's flag snap loudly. Rodney reads an astrophysics article out loud, explaining as he goes, while John pretends to be sleeping.
After dinner, John rallies, drawn by the cool air, maybe, and they walk to the beach. There's only a very small chance that rent-a-cops on bikes will chase them away, or so John promises, repeatedly, and also points out that they're rent-a-cops on bikes, so Rodney tries not to worry too much about that, or about what he might potentially be stepping on in the dark.
It's clear and starry, and they stare up at the constellations for a while and talk about propulsion and breaking atmosphere and orbit.
Then John tugs on Rodney's shorts, and Rodney can see him waggling his eyebrows ridiculously, even in the dark, as he suggests skinny-dipping and then laughs when Rodney can't help squawking at him. They do wade into the water, though, and it's warm as it swirls around their calves, their movements stirring up the phosphorescence, winking blue-green and alien. John keeps his fingers tucked in Rodney's waistband, and Rodney strokes his thumb across the back of John's neck, almost matching the rhythm of the shushing waves, and he hopes John can hear him saying, I'm here, I'm not going anywhere, hopes he knows that Rodney will be here tomorrow, too, and the day after that.