One year later:
Michael woke later than usual, with light streaming through the window. Tiny specks of dust turned gold in the mid-morning sunlight, and drifted about. He stuck his hand through the nearest beam of light, and then he stretched and frowned a little when he realized Chuck wasn't in the bed. But then he noticed the slight smell of eggs, and the soft sound of music from downstairs, and he smiled to himself.
Birds chirped outside, and a slight breeze ruffled the curtains. (Chuck had made him get new ones, because he disliked waking at the break of dawn, but they were still thin and sheer, soft blue.) Michael yawned and decided to go downstairs—after a quick little morning freshening-up in the bathroom, of course. He needed to shave.
Downstairs, all the windows were open, letting in fresh summer salt air. Chuck had put on some Bright Eyes LP at random, and it played just a little scratchy. Michael walked into the kitchen, and just as he'd thought, Chuck was making eggs. Scrambled eggs with leftover pesto, apparently. Michael sidled up behind him, wrapping his arms around Chuck, and murmured, "You never wake up before me, let alone cook. What's the occasion?" He nuzzled Chuck's neck.
Chuck rolled his eyes. "The occasion—" he said, as he leaned over to turn off the burner. "The occasion is that I forgot our one year anniversary, so I'm doing it a month late."
Michael laughed and kissed his stubbly jawline. "I told you I didn't care. I almost forgot, too."
"Yeah—but... But you made me a little. A thing. That pastry thing. And I felt bad." Chuck squirmed a little in Michael's embrace and dumped the eggs out onto two plates. He turned around, once his hands were free, to drape his arms over Michael's shoulders. "So I made you breakfast. And I'm making dinner. And I picked some of the lavender from the yard because it smells nice." He shrugged. "I tried to use your juicer thingy to make oranges, but I ended up squirting myself in the glasses so I gave up and stuck what I got in the fridge. Maybe I'll make something dessert-y with it. Sugar-free dessert-y."
With a snort, Michael hugged Chuck tighter. "You're much too sweet. If forgetful."
Chuck just shook his head. "You cook for me all the time, so I thought I should return the favor." He seemed to be struck with a memory, suddenly, and said, "Oh!" He pulled away from Michael so he could see his face more clearly. "I also found some sparklers. I think they're from last year's fourth of July!"
"Oh, really?" Michael tilted his head curiously. "What did you do with them?"
Gently, Chuck pushed at Michael until he let him go. He took up their plates and moved toward the island, and sat down. Patted the tabletop. "I put them on the couch. Maybe we can play with them later, or something." He shrugged. "Anyway! Eat! Time for food! I slaved away for you!" But he was grinning broadly, and leaned against the tabletop with a fond look in his eyes.
Michael sat, and they ate together.
The evening was a little damp, and cold for August. A fine drizzle sifted through the air. Left tiny beads across the wool of Chuck's scarf and Michael's thin cardigan. Like glitter. Michael turned his face up into the cool, gentle mist of rain. He stood still on the beach. A few feet away, Chuck flicked his lighter a few times, and lit a sparkler. He held it out, away from them both, in the dusk. Michael smiled. Chuck waved that one around a bit, but he handed it to Michael, who just held it and watched its white sparks fall to the sand.
Chuck set the sparklers all out in a curving line, each stick shoved into the sand. He made a heart and asked, "Is this dorky enough for you?" He grinned. Lit them one by one, 'til a little fiery heart stood on the beach.
"You should take a picture." Michael teased. He tossed the sparkler in his hand to the wet sand. It went out almost right away. He wrapped an arm around Chuck's waist, and kissed him. "When school starts, and I have the children write about what they did over the summer, they're sure to ask me, and I can just show them this picture." More kisses, all across Chuck's face.
Chuck blushed.
Michael jostled him a little in his arms, and looked back out on the dimly lit waves and the heart of sparks.
He hadn't been out on his sailboat since the previous summer—hadn't even bothered to have it repaired, or to buy a new one. He still fished, in the river, either by rowboat or from the shore. Always in calm weather, always with Chuck at his side. But he still loved the ocean, and walking out into the surf with his jeans rolled up to his knees and the sun high above dispersing the fog.
They stood out in the dark until the sparklers went out, and then Chuck dragged Michael inside to eat dinner—a Spanish omelet, baked in a cast iron pan—and then dessert of a sort—orange muffins, sweetened only from the orange juice he'd made in the morning.
After dinner, they sat on the couch with the fire going. Michael worked on embroidering a twisting old pine tree onto a piece of flecked off-white cloth, and Chuck sketched beside him. As the moon rose outside, Chuck drifted off to sleep, still holding his pencil in one hand. When Michael took away his notebook—careful not to wake him—he looked at the drawing there.
A little mouse, shy and plump, with a thin garden snake. Vaguely penciled-in words, for a tentative title.
Chuck was designing the cover for the book he'd finished the year before. About the small brown mouse who became a lonely snake's first friend. The book that had absolutely become about Michael and Chuck, somehow. Michael smiled to himself, just barely. He bundled Chuck into his arms and carried him upstairs—half-woke him to change his clothes. And they lay down together, and Michael wrapped himself around Chuck, and Chuck curled into him, and he whispered,
"Night, Michael."
Michael kissed the top of his head. "Goodnight."