Written for APH Rarepair Week 2019: Day 7 - Nostalgia
For the one anon who asked; you're a cool person ️
It is dark when Herakles wakes, the kind of awake that he doesn't often experience, a full awareness of the world, of the quiet hum of the ceiling fan, of the coffee machine grinding, of the distinct lack of his boyfriend's snores from beside him.
Herakles sighs as he shifts from the comfort of the sheets, a quick glance at the digital clock on Lovino's side of the bed telling him it's not yet four in the morning. He waits the few minutes he still has, staring demurely at the shapes in the darkness, before turning off the static of the alarm; Lovino never does bother to search for a proper radio station.
He finds Lovino seated on the counter, reading yesterday's newspaper as a coffee mug steams next to him. He's dressed simply, wearing one of Herakles' t-shirts and a pair of capri pants. His toe nails are still painted an ostentatious red from when Emma had stayed over.
"Made you a cup as well," Lovino says as he folds the paper, watching Herakles pad over to it. "Didn't know whether you wanted sugar or not today so I didn't add any."
Herakles grunts something, feeling the words stick in his throat. There's something blasphemous about speaking in the morning, especially so in the early not-even-allowed-to-be-called morning: a disturbance of a sacred silence.
It's then no surprise that Lovino breaks it, never a stickler for a rules, if one for tradition. Yet, they don't speak beyond that, both sipping their coffee, talking through facial expressions and gestures until Lovino finally breaks and laughs, muffling the noise with his hand as he shakes his head. Herakles smiles, dumping the dregs of his coffee down the drain, and he shuffles to the bedroom to change.
He refuses to flick on the light as he rummages around for a shirt and a pair of shorts, falling back onto the bed after with a quiet huff.
Lovino has no mercy however, turning on the light, finding their jackets, and dragging Herakles from blessed sleep by the ankle. Though that, too, is tradition, a reluctance that hasn't dwindled since youth and teenage years sneaked off to do other things in the early morning hours.
They drive to the beach, deserted as they cross the dunes. They have left their shoes in the car and Herakles revels in the feeling of the still cool sand in between his toes, wriggling them as he waits for Lovino to button his jacket.
The air is cold, but holds a crisp freshness to it, carrying salt and memories with the soft breeze.
It's as the sky begins to purple, the already faint stars overhead vanishing, that Herakles takes Lovino's hand, grown calloused and worn over the years picking at guitar strings and moulding clay.
They sit, closely together, staring at the little figures of boats in the far distance. The sky is now a palette of purple and pink, hints of red and orange behind the clouds that roll over the horizon. They might miss the sun's rise from the water, obscured by those same clouds, but it's the principle that truly matters.
It's their thing, since they were children, to come to the beach. A place for them to meet, every summer first, because Lovino's grandparents used to live down the road while Lovino himself came from Italy, and later as often as they could when Lovino began living here too, after the accident that had left him with only his grandparents.
It's where they talked about their troubles, their problems, their anxieties. It's where they laughed and cried and yelled and got so angry Lovino had once thrown his shoes into the water. It's where they talked about boys and girls and gender and other things.
It's where they had had their first, incredibly awkward kiss. (It's thankfully not where they had made love for the first time).
It's where Lovino had asked him to be his girlfriend. It's where Herakles had asked to be his boyfriend instead.
It is strange to think about now; how much has changed since then.
Tumultuous events always happen on this beach, he humours.
He glances at Lovino, who's leaning back on his hands, eyes faraway. He hasn't changed much at all, with his brown curls and his honey eyes. Maybe he's gained a freckle here and there, and there's a couple of lines around his eyes and between his eyebrows that border on wrinkly, though Lovino will hit him with the nearest blunt object should he point it out, but he's still so wonderful, aggressively supportive as he can be sometimes.
Herakles unfurls, stretching his legs along Lovino's, and he leans his head on Lovino's shoulder. He hums appreciatively as Lovino wraps his arm around him, resting his hand in his hair, absently playing with his curls.
Lovino sighs, pressing a kiss against his temple. "I love you so much, Herakles."
Herakles smiles and kisses underneath Lovino's jaw. He doesn't often speak his fondness out loud, knowing that Lovino knows, through his actions and his gestures, but he does then, softly, an "I love you too" that makes Lovino shiver slightly, his fingers tightening in Herakles' hair.
The sun has risen now, even though they can't see it, but yellow comes in bursts through the clouds, glittering off the gentle waves. It's a sight Herakles has seen a million times before, and will see a million times more, but he doubts he'll ever tire of it. The calmness, the peace, the happiness that bubbles and froths like the surf.
It's life.
I imagine them as being thirty-something in this and yes Herakles is trans because no can stop me.